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PREFACE 

TO    THE    ENGLISH    EDITION. 


-•o»- 


The  following  extracts  from  the  Chief  English  Writers 
were  selected  by  the  late  Mr.  Shaw  to  accompany  his  His- 
tory of  English  Literature,  and  are  divided  into  the  same 
number  of  chapters,  that  they  may  be  read  with  the  bio- 
graphical and  critical  account  of  each  author.  They  present 
Specimens  of  all  the  chief  English  Writers  from  the  earliest 
times  to  the  present  century.  In  making  these  Selections, 
two  objects  have  been  chiefly  kept  in  view :  first,  the  illus- 
tration of  the  style  of  each  Writer  by  some  of  the  most 
striking  or  characteristic  specimens  of  his  works ;  and,  sec- 
ondly, the  choice  of  such  passages  as  are  suitable,  either  from 
their  language  or  their  matter,  to  be  read  in  schools  or  com- 
mitted  to  memory. 

W.  S 

(3) 


ivi240391 


Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 

in  2008  with  funding  from 

IVIicrosoft  Corporation 


http://www.archive.org/details/choicespecimensoOOshawrich 


PREFACE 

TO    THE    AMERICAN    EDITION, 


-*o*- 


In  furnishing  to  American  students  an  edition  of  Dr.  Sliaw'? 
"  Specimens  of  English  Literature,"  which  should  be  adapted  to 
their  wants,  the  Editor  deems  it  proper  to  state  what  changes  have 
been  made  in  the  volume. 

It  appeared,  upon  examination,  that,  even  with  Dr.  William 
Smith's  additions  to  the  original  work  of  Dr.  Shaw,  some  of  the 
best  English  writers  were  not  represented  in  the  selections.  As 
it  seemed  desirable  to  make  the  representation  of  approved  authors 
as  complete  as  a  moderate  limit  would  allow,  it  became  necessary 
to  revise  the  whole  work;  and,  in  order  to  gain  space  for  a  more 
extended  view,  to  omit  whatever  was  of  inferior  interest.  It  was 
found,  too,  that  many  passages,  either  not  of  the  highest  merit, 
of  needless  length,  or  unsuitable  to  be  read  in  seminaries,  might 
with  advantage  be  abbreviated,  or  exchanged  for  others. 

By  these  methods,  it  became  possible,  without  increasing  the 
size,  materially  to  extend  the  scope  of  the  work.  While  no  im- 
portant writer  represented  in  the  original  has  been  excluded  from 
this  reprint,  opportunity  has  been  gained,  by  judicious  condensa- 
tion, to  present  to  the  reader  specimens  of  the  following  list  of 
English  authors  not  included  in  the  English  edition,  viz.  :  Algernon 
Sydney,  Ray,  John  Ho-iVe,  Sir  Isaac  Newiofi,  Doddridge,  Watts, 
Bishop  Butler,  Bentham,  Foster,  Chalmers,  Pollok,  Hallam,  Mrs. 
Hcmans,  Mrs.  Bro-vuning,  Hjigh  Miller,  Edward  Irving,  Macaiilay, 
Hazlitt,  and   Hood. 

In  addition  to  the  changes  involved  in  this  more  enlarged  rep- 
resentation, alterations  have  been  made  upon  some  one  or  other 
of  the  following  grounds.  ' 

Passages  containing  Greek  or  Latin  quotations  have  generallj- 
been  omitted,   as  embarrassing  in  seminaries  in  which  the   ancien; 

(5) 


6  PREFACE    TO   THE  AMERICAN  EDITION.      . 

classics  are  not  studied :  an  extract  has  occasionally  been  stricken 
out  on  the  score  of  coarseness  and  bad  taste :  others  of  questionable 
truth,  or  of  doubtful  morality,  have  been  either  omitted  or  abridged ; 
and  prosaic  or  sombre  passages  have  been  exchanged  for  those 
of  a  more  poetic  or  cheerful  cast.  A  few  brief  foot-notes  have 
also  been  added.  The  number,  however,  of  such  changes  is  not 
so  great  as  to  aifect  the  identity  of  the  two  works;  and  has  not 
seemed  to  require  any  other  than  this  general  acknowledgment. 

The  Editor  indulges  the  hope  that,  while  the  changes  which  have 
been  introduced  will  impart  to  the  work  an  increased  interest,  they 
will  not  be  found  to  impair  at  all  its  representative  character ;  and 
that  an  improved  tone,  both  of  taste  and  of  sentiment,  in  the  selec- 
tions, will  justify  the  alterations  with  which  it  is  now  submitted 
to  the  American  public. 

B.  N.  M. 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER  I. 
Anglo-Saxon,  Semi-Saxon,  and  Old  English  Literature. 


A.  Anglo-Saxon. 


Page 
17 


Caedmon,  A.  D.  650.       .     . 

1.  The  Creation. 

King  Alfred iS 

2.  Ohtlier's  Narrative,  in  Translation  of  Bo- 

ethius. 

3.  Translation  of  the  Pastorale  of  St.  Gregory. 

B.  Semi-Saxon. 
Layamon.    Brut,  1 150-1250.    .     20 

4.  The  Dream  of  Arthur. 

5.  The  Ormulum. 


C.  Old  English,  1250-13 50. 
Henry  III 22 

(!.  Proclamation  in  A.  D.  1258. 

7- 
8. 

9- 

lO. 


King  Alisaunder. 


23 


Havelok 24 

Robert  of  Gloucester.    .     .  24 
Robert  Mannj'ng,  or  Rob- 
ert of  Brunne 25 


CHAPTER   II. 


The  Age  of  Chaucer. 


of  Piers  Plough- 


The  Vision 

man,  1350 

11.  Satire  of  Lawyers. 

[ohn  Gower,  d.  140S.       .     .     . 

12.  "Confessio  Amantis  :"  Tale  of  the  Cof- 

fers or  Caskets. 

13.  Chaucer,  132S-1400.      .     . 

From  the  Prologue  to  the  Canterbury 

Tales. 
The  Knight. 
The  Prioress. 
The  Friar. 


26 
26 

29 


The  Doctor  of  Physic. 
The  Miller. 

John  Barbour,  d.  A.  D.  1396.    .     35 

11.  Apostrophe  to  Freedom. 

Chaucer  (Prose) 36 

15.  Tale  of  J\Ieilb(Eus  (from  the  Parson's 
Talc).     Counsel  of  Prinleni;e. 

16.  Sir  John    de    Mandeville, 

1300-1371 36 

Wiclifte,  A.  D.  1324-1384.    .     .     38 

17.  Matthew's  Gospel,  Chap.  VIU. 


CHAPTER   III. 

From  the  Death  of  Chaucer  to  the  Age  of  Elizabeth, 

A.  D.  1400-1558. 

A.   Scottish  Poets. 


James  I.,  I394-H37 40 

18.  On  his  Beloved. 

William  Dunbar,  about  1465- 
1520 41 

I'J.  Ire,  Pride,  and  Envy. 

Sir  David  Lyndsay,  1490-1557.     42 

20.  Meldrinr.'s    Duel    wi'Ji     the     English 

Champion  Talbart. 

B.  English  Poets. 
John  Skelton,  d.  1529.     ...     44 

21.  .Vtiauk  upon  Wolsey. 


Sir  Thomas  Wyatt,  1503-1541.     45 

22.  To  his  Beloved. 

Earl  of  Surrey,  I5i7-i547-       •     46 

23.  A  Prisoner  in  Windsor  Castle,  he  Re- 

flects on  Past  Happiness. 

24.  Description  of  Spring. 

Thomas,  Lord  Vaux.      ...     47 

25.  Upon  his  White  Hairs. 

C.  English  Prose. 
Caxton,  d.  1491 48 

20.  Introduction  to  the  Morte  d' Arthur. 


CONTENTS. 


27.  Lord  Berners's  Froissart.  49 

Tjndale,  d.  1536 50 

28.  MatUiew's  Gospel,  Chap.  VIII. 

29.  Hugh  Latimer,  d.  1555.     .  51 

Sir  Thomas  More,  1480-1535.  52 

30.  Description  of  Richard  lU. 

31.  Roger  Ascham,  1515-1568.  SZ 


D.  Ballads. 

32.  The     Ancient     Ballad    of 

Chevj  Chase 54 

33.  The  more  Modern  Ballad 

of  Chevy  Chase.  ...     61 

34.  Sir  Patrick  Spens.    ...     68 

35.  The  Two  Corbies.     ...     71 


CHAPTER   IV. 
The  Elizabethan  Poets  (including  the  Reign  of  James  I). 

Michael  Drayton,  1563-163 1.        84 


George  Gascoigne,  1530-1577.     73 

36.  The  Vanity  of  the  Beautiful. 

Thomas   Sackville,  Lord  Buck- 
hurst 73 

37.  Allegorical  Personages  in  Hell. 

Edmund  Spenser,  1553-1599-        75 

38.  Una  and  the  Lion. 
.39.  Prince  Arthur. 

40.  Belphccbe. 

41.  The  Care  of  Angels  over  Men. 

42.  The  Seasons. 

43.  Sonnet  LXXXVIII. 

Sir  Philip  Sydney,  1554-1586.     79 

44.  Sonnet  to  Sleep. 

Sir  Walter  Raleigh,  1552-1618.     So 

i5.  A  Passionate  Shepherd  to  his  Love. 
The  Nymph's  Reply  to  the  Passionate 

Shepherd. 
The  Soul's  Errand. 

Samuel  Daniel,  1562-1619. 

46.  Richard  II.  on  the  Moruiug  before  his 
Murder. 


83 


47.  Pigwiggen  Arming. 

48.  From  the  Puly-olbion.    Song  XHI. 

Sir  John  Davies,  1570-1626.     .     85 

49.  From  the  Nosce  Teipsum. 

John  Donne,  1573-1631.      .     .     86 

50.  From  his  Elegies. 

Bishop  Hall,  1574-1656.      .     .     87 

51.  From  the  Satires. 

Robert  Southwell,  1560-1595.      88 

52.  Times  go  by  Turns. 

Giles  Fletcher.        .....     89 

53.  Justice  addi-essing  the  Creator. 

William     Drummond,      1585- 

1649 89 

54.  On  Sleep. 


CHAPTER  V. 

The  New  Philosophy  and  Prose  Literature  in  the  Reigns  of 

Elizabeth  and  James  I. 


Sir  Philip  Sydney,  1554-15S6.     90 

65.  In  Praise  of  Poetry. 

Sir  Walter  Raleigh,  1552-1618.     91 

56.  The  Folly  of  Ambition  and  Power  of 

Death. 

Richard  Hooker,  1553-1598.    .     92 

57.  The  Necessity  and  Majesty  of  Law. 

Francis  Bacon,  1561-1626.        .     93 

58.  Of  Studies. 

59.  Of  Adversity. 

60.  Of  Discourse. 

.     61.  Atheism  ignoble. 

62.  Design  of  the  Inductive  Philosophy. 

63.  The  Benefit  of  Learning. 


64.  The  Dignity  of  Literature. 

65.  Vindication  of  Natural  Theology. 

Robert  Burton,  1576-1640.       .     98 

66.  Philautia,  or  Self-Love,  a  Cause  of  Mel- 

anchuiy. 

67.  The  Power  of  Love. 

Lord    Herbert    of    Cherbury, 

1581-1648 100 

68.  From  Life  of  Henry  VIH. 

69.  Thomas  Hobbes,i588-i679.  :oi 

Emulation  and  Envy. 

Laugltter. 

Weeping. 

Admiration  and  Curiosity. 


CHAPTER    VI. 

The  Dawn  of  the  Drama. 

Christopher  Marlowe,  1563  .''-1593. 


ICV| 


70.  From  Edward  U. 


I  71.  From  Doctor  Faustus. 


CONTENTS. 


9 


CHAPTER  VII. 


Sh.\kspeare,  1564-1616. 


Shakspeare,  1564-1616.      .     . 
A.  Comedies. 

72.  The  World  a  Stage. 

73.  The  Abuse  of  Authority. 
;  t.  Mercy. 

75.  Oberon's  Vision. 

70  The  Power  of  Imagination. 

B.  Historical  Plays. 


77.  Lamentation  of  Constance. 

78.  Clarence's  Dream. 

79.  Wolsey  and  Cromwell. 

80.  Death  of  Queen  Katharine. 


108 


C.  Tragedies. 

81.  Hamlet  and  the  Ghost. 

82.  riamlei's  Soliloquy  on  Death. 

83.  Mark  Antony's  Oration  over  the  dead 

Body  of  CaBsar. 

84.  Macbeth's  Irresolution  before  the  Murder 

of  Duncan. 

85.  Witches. 

D.  Songs. 

86.  Ariel's  Song. 

87.  The  Fairy  to  Puck. 

88.  Sonnet  XCIX. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 


The  Shakspearian  Dramatists. 


Benjonson,  1573-1637. 


89.  From  the  Sad  Shepherd;  or,  %  Tale  of 

Robin  Hood. 

90.  From  Sejanus. 


123 


Beaumont,       1586-1615, 
Fletcher,  1576-1625. 

91.  From  the  Faithful  Shepherdess. 

92.  From  the  Two  Noble  Kinsmen. 


and 


125 


Philip  Massinger,  1584-1640.      129 

93.  From  the  Virgin  Martyr. 

John  Ford,  15S6-1639.     .     .     .   130 

94.  From  the  Lover's  Melancholy. 

John  Webster.    Fl.  1623.     •     •  131 

9.5.  From  the  Duchess  of  Malfy. 

James  Shirley,  1594-1666.    .     .   132 

96.  From  the  Lady  of  Pleasure. 


CHAPTER  IX. 
The  so-called  Metaphysical  Poets. 


George  Wither,  1588-1667.      .   136 

97.  The  Steadfast  Shepherd. 

Francis  Quarles,  1592-1644.    .   136 

98.  O  that  Thou  wouldst  hide  Me  in  the 

Grave,  that  Thou  wouldst  keep  Me  in 
secret  until  Thy  wrath  be  past. 

George  Herbert,  1593-1632.     .   137 

99.  Sunday. 

Richard  Crashaw,  1620-1650.     138 

1(X\  Lines  on  a  Prayer-Book  sent  to  Mrs.  R. 

loi.  Robert  Herrick,i59i-i674.  139 

Song. 

To  Meadows. 

Sir  John  Suckling,  1609-1641.    140 

102.  Song. 

Sir   Richard   Lovelace,    1618- 

1658 141 

103.  To  AUhea  from  Prison. 


Thomas  Carew,  1589-1639.      .   142 

104.  Song. 

William  Browne,  1590-1645.    .   142 

105.  Evening. 

William      Habington,      1605- 

1654 143 

10c.  Cupio  Dissolvi. 

Edmund  Waller,  1605-1687.    .   143 

107.  Song. 

On  a  Girdle. 

Sir  William  Davenant,  1605- 

1668 144 

108.  Character  of  Birtha. 

Sir  John  I>enhain,  1615-1668.    145 

109.  The  Thames. 

Abraham  Cowlej,  1618-1667.     146 

110.  Hymn  to  Light. 

111.  Character  ot  CromweU. 


10 


CONTENTS, 


CHAPTER   X. 

Theologicai.  Writers  of  the  Civil  War  and  the 

Commonwealth. 


John  Hales,  1584-1656.  .     .     .  148 

112   Peace  in  the  Church. 

Wi-'.iam  Chillingworth,  1602- 

1644 .149 

113.  1  he  Religion  of  Protestants. 

Sir    Thomas    Browne,     1605- 

1682 150 

114.  Tlioughts  on  Death  and  Immortality. 

Thomas  Fuller,  1608-1661.      .   151 

115.  The  Good  Schoolmaster. 

1x6.  JeremjTajlor,  1613-1667.  152 

Marriage. 
On  Prayer. 


On  Content. 

Against  Anger. 
Cunitbrting  tlie  Afflicted. 

Richard  Baxter,  1615-1691.      .   156 

117.  From  the  "  Saints'  Rest." 

Joseph  Hall,  1574-1656.        .     .   158 

118.  The  Pleasure  of  Study. 

Owen    Feltham.     Circa  1610- 

1677 158 

119.  Sedulity  and  Diligence. 

Sir  Thomas  Overbury,    1581- 

1613 159 

120.  A  Fair  and  Happy  Milkmaid. 


CHAPTER    XI. 


John  Milton,  1608-1674. 


John  Milton,  I608-1674. 

121.  From  the  Hymn  of  the  Nativity. 

122.  From  Comus. 

123.  From  Lycidas. 

124.  From  L' Allegro. 

125.  From  II  Penseroso. 

126.  Exordium  ot  Book  I.     Par.  Lost 

127.  Satan.     (Book  I.) 

128.  Pandemonium.     (Book  I.) 

129.  Death  and  Satan.     (Book  II.) 

130.  Invocation  to  Light.    (Book  III.) 
13L  Eden.    (Book  IV.) 


.    161 


132.  Adam  and  Eve.    (Book  IV.) 

133.  Evening  in  Eden.    (Book  IV.) 

134.  Morning  Prayer  of  Adam  and  Eve. 

(BookV.) 

135.  Athens.    (Book  IV.)     Par.  Regained. 
13(i.  l^ament  of  Samson. 

137.  Sonnet  on  his  own  Blindness. 

138.  On  tiie  late  Massacre  in  Piedmont. 
13'J.  Argument  for  the  Liberty  of  the  Press. 

Andrew  Marvell,  1620-1678.    . 

140.  The  Nymph  complaining  for  the  Death 
of  her  Fawn. 


i8n 


CHAPTER  Xn. 
The  Age  of  the  Restoration. 


141.  Samuel  Butler,  1612-1680.  182 

Honor. 

Caligula's  Campaign  in  Britain. 
The  Procession  of  the  Skimmington. 
The  Opposition  in  the  Long  Parliament. 

Jchn  Drjden,  1631-1700.     .     .  184 

142.  London  after  the  Fire. 
143-  On  Milton. 

144.  Character  of  Shaftesbury  (Achitophel). 

145.  Character  of  Zimri  (Villiera,  Duke  of 

Buckingham). 
14<).  Veni,  Creator  Spiritus. 

147.  Faith. 

148.  Epistle  to  Congreve. 

149.  Dreams. 

150.  Alexander's  Feast. 

151.  Chaucer  and  Cowley. 

152.  Shakspeare  and  Ben  Jonson. 

Algernon  Sidney,  1621--1684.  •   ^95 

153.  Influence  of  Government  OE.  the  Char- 

acter of  a  People. 


John  Raj,  1628-1705.       .     .     .  197 

154.  Civilization  designed  by  the  Creator. 

155,  John  Bunyan,  1628-1688.     197 

The  Vallov  of  Humiliation. 
The  Golden  City. 

Edward  Hyde,  Earl  of  Claren- 
don, 1608-1674 201 

15C.  Character  of  John  Hampden. 

157.  Execution  of  Montrose. 

Izaak  Walton,  1593-1683.    .     .  203 

158.  Fishing. 
Contentment. 

John  Evelyn,  1620-1706.       .     .  205 

159.  St.  Paul's  Cathedral  and  the  Fire  of 

London. 

Samuel  Pepys,  1632-1703.        .   205 

IGO.  Mr.  Pepys  quarrels  with  his  Wife. 


CONTENTS. 


11 


CHAPTER  XIII. 
The  Second  Revolution. 


John  Locke,  1632-1704.  .     .     . 

161.  Uses  of  Pleasure  aiid  Fuin. 

162.  Isaac  Barrow,  1630-1677. 

God. 

What  is  Wit? 

John  Tillotson,  1630-1694. 

3S.'J.  Happiness  is  Goodness. 

Robert  South,  1633-1716.    .     . 

IW.  The  State  of  Man  before  the  Fall. 

William  Sherlock,  1678-1761. 

I&5.  Charity. 


207 

208 

210 
211 
212 


Robert  Boyle,  1627-1691.     .     .213 

I6G.  Practical  Sufficiency  of  the  great  Prin- 
ciples of  Morals. 

John  Howe,  1630-1705.   .     .     .  214 

167.  The  Temple  in  Ruins. 

Gilbert  Burnet,  1643-1715.  .     .  215 

168.  Character  of  William  III. 

Sir  Isaac  Newton,  1642-1727.     216 

169.  Effect  of  an  Experiment  upon  Light 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

Pope,  Swift,  and  the  Poets  in  the  Reigns  of  Queen  Anne, 

George  I.,  and  George  II. 


Alexander  Pope,  168S-1744. 

170.  From  the  "  Essay  on  Criticism." 
Pride. 

Suund  an  Echo  to  the  Sense. 
From  the  "  Essay  on  Man." 
The  Scale  of  Being. 
Omnipresence  ot  the  Deity. 
Address  to  Bolingbroke. 
Description  of  Belinda. 
The  Di'iug  Christian  to  his  Soul. 


171, 


172. 

17a. 


174.  Country  Hospitality. 

175.  The  Academy  of  Legado. 

176.  Thoughts  on  Various  Subjects. 


2X8 


Jonathan  Swift,  1667-1745.       .  222 


Matthew  Prior,  1664-1721. 

177.  The  Chameleon. 

John  Gaj,  1688-1732.      .     . 

178.  The  Hare  and  many  Friends. 

Thomas  Parnell,  1679-1718. 

179.  Hymn  to  Contentment. 

Edward  Young,  16S1-1765. 

180.  Procrastination. 

Bishop  Butler,  1692-1752.   . 

181.  Evidence  for  Christianity  sufficient. 


.    225 
.    226 

.    228 

.    229 

•    230 


CHAPTER  XV. 
The    Essayists. 


loseph  Addison,  1672-1719.     .  232 

182.  The  Political  L^'pholsterer. 
1&3.  The  Vision  of  Mirza. 

184.  Ketiections  in  Westminster  Abbey. 

183.  Cato's  Soliloquy  on  the  Immortality  of 

the  Soul. 

Sir  Richard  Steele,  1675-1729.  237 

186.  The  Dream. 

Sir    William    Temple,    162S- 

1699 238 

187.  Against  Excessive  Grief. 


Lord  Shaftesbury,  1671-1713.     239 

188.  The  Deity  unfolded  in  his  Works. 

Lord  Bolingbroke,  1678-1751.    240 

189.  The  Use  of  History. 

190.  The  Patriot  King. 

Bishop  Berkelej^  1684-1753.    .  242 

191.  Luxury  the  Cause  of  National  Ruin. 

Lady   Mary    Montagu,    1690- 

1762 243 

192.  From  her  Letters. 


CHAPTER  XVI. 


Daniel  Defoe,  1661-1731.    .     . 

193.  From  "  The  Great  Plague  in  London." 

Henry  Fielding,  1707-1754.     .  246 

194.  From  "  Tom  Jones." 

Tobias  George  Smollett,  1721- 

1771 247 

195.  The  Soldier's  Return. 


The  Great  Novelists. 
,     .  244 


Laurence  Sterne,  1713-1768.    .  248 

196.  Death  of  Le  Fevre. 

Oliver  Goldsmith,  172S-1774.     25a 

197.  The  Stern  Moralist. 

198.  A  Fable. 
IW.  France. 

200.  The  Village  Inn. 


12 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

Historical,  Moral,  Political,  and  Theological  Writers  of 

THE  Eighteenth  Century. 


Isaac  Watts,  1674-1728.       .     .  254 

201.  The  Earnest  Student. 

Philip  Doddridge,  1702-1751.     254 

202.  Obli;j:ation  of  Harmony  among  Chris- 

tians. 

Darid  Hume,  1711-1776.     .     .  255 

3"*?.  Character  of  Queen  Elizabeth. 

204.  On  the  Middle  Station  of  Life. 

William  Robertson,  1721-1793.  258 

205.  Execution  of  Mary,  Queen  of  Scots. 

Edward  Gibbon,  1737-1794.     .  259 

206.  Conception  and  Completion  of  his  Hia- 

torv. 

207.  Charlemagne. 

208.  Mahomet. 

209.  Invention  and  Use  of  Gunpowder. 

Samuel  Johnson,  1709-1784.    •  264 

210.  Letter  to  the  Earl  of  Chesterfield. 

211.  From  the  Preface  to  his  Dictionary. 

212.  The  Right  Improvement  of  Time. 
..   213.  Dryden  and  Pope. 


214.  Reflections  on  Landing  at  lona. 

215.  The  Fate  of  Poverty. 

216.  Charles  XII. 

William    Pitt,    Earl   of  Chat- 
ham, 1708-1778 27a 

217.  Speech  on  American  Affairs. 

Edmund  Burke,  1731-1797.      .   272 

218.  Sympathy  a  Source  of  the  Sublime. 

219.  Close  of  his  Speech  to  the  Electors  of 

Bristol. 

220.  Marie  Antoinette,  Queen  of  France. 

221.  From  the  "Impeachment  of    Warren 

Hastings." 

222.  From    "A  Letter   to    a  Noble  Lord" 

(Duke  of  Bedford). 

The  Letters  of  Junius,   1769- 

1772 277 

223.  To  his  Grace  the  Duke  of  Bedford. 

Adam  Smith,  1723-1790      .     .  279 

224.  On  the  Division  of  Labor. 

William  Paley,  1743-1805.  .     .  280 

225.  Character  of  Paul. 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 
The  Dawn  of  Romantic  Poetry. 


Robert  Blair,  1699-1746.    .       .  282 

226.  From  "  The  Grave." 

James  Thomson,  1700-1748.     .  283 

227.  Evening  in  Autumn. 

228.  Reflections  suggested  by  Winter. 

229.  From  "The  Castle  of  Indolence." 

William  Shenstone,  1714-1763.  285 

230.  The  Shepherd's  Home. 

William  Collins,  1721-1759.    .  286 

2r,l.  Ode  to  Fear. 

Mark  Akenside,  1721-1770.      .  287 

232.  Genius. 

Thomas  Gray,  1716-1771.   .     .  288 

233.  Elegy  written  in  a  Country  Churchyard. 
2.34.  On  a  Dis'ant  Prospect  of  Eton  College. 
2So.  The  Progress  of  Poesy. 

William  Cowper,  1731-1800.    .  295 

2SC).  On  the  Receipt  of  my  Mother's  Picture. 

237.  Mercy  to  Animals. 

238.  Pleasures  of  a  Winter  Evening. 

239.  The  Play-Place  of  Early  Days. 

210.  The  Diverting  History  of  John  Gilpin. 

William  Falconer,  1730-1769.     307 

'Ml.  From  "  The  Shipwreck." 


Erasmus  Darwin,  1731-1802. 

242.  Steel. 

James  Macpherson,  1738-1796. 

243.  The  Songs  of  Selma. 

Thomas      Chatterton,      1752- 
1770 

244.  Resignation. 

George  Crabbe,  1754-1832. 

24.5.  The  Dying  Sailor. 

246.  An  English  Peasant. 

Robert  Burns,  1759-1796.    .     . 

247.  To  iNIary  in  Heaven. 

248.  John  Anderson. 
240.  Bannockburn. 

250.  The  Banks  o'  Doon. 

251.  The  Cotter's  Saturday  Night. 

John  Wolcott,  1738-1819.     .     . 

252.  The  Razor  Seller. 

Richard     Brinslej    Sheridan, 
1751-1816 

253.  The  Old  Husband  and  the  Young  "Vfife. 


307 
308 

310 

315 

322 
323 


CHAPTER  XIX. 
Walter    Scott. 


Walter  Scott,  1771-1832.      .     . 

254.  Description  of  Melrose  Abbey. 

255.  Love  of  Country 
2.")6.  Pitt  and  Fox. 

257.  The  Parting  of  Douglas  and  Marmion. 

258.  The  Death  of  Marmion. 


326 


259.  Ellen  —  The  Lady  of  the  LaTie. 

260.  Paternal  Aft'ection. 

201.  Sunset  and  the  Approach  of  a  Storm. 
262.  Des(!ription  of  Richmond. 
2&i.  Rebecca    describes    the    Siege    to  the 
wounded  Ivaiihoe. 


CONTENTS. 


13 


CHAPTER  XX. 
Byron,  Moore,  Shelley,  Keats,  and  Campbell. 


Lord  Byron,  1 788-1 824.       .     , 

let.  The  Eve  of  the  Battle  of  Waterloo. 

Rome. 

Tlic  Gladiator. 

The  Ocean. 

Modern  Greece. 

The  Flight  of  the  Giaour. 

The  Crime  of  the  East- 
2ri.  A  Ship  in  full  Sail. 
272.  Remorse. 

From  "  The  Prisoner  of  Chillon." 

Manfred's  Soliloquy  on  the  Jungfrau. 

The  Coliseum. 

The  Isles  of  Greece. 

Armenia. 


339 


2G-) 
2G(). 
20/. 
2^3. 
2(!9. 
270. 


2;n. 

274. 
275. 
276. 
277. 


Thomas  Moore,  1 779-1852.      .  351 


278.  Paradise  and  the  Peri. 

279.  'Tis  the  Last  Rose  of  Summer. 

280.  Forget  not  the  Field. 


282.  The  Turf  shall  be  my  Fragrant  Shrine. 

Percy  Bysshe   Shelley,    1792- 

1^21. 357 

283.  From  "  Ode  to  a  Skylark." 

284.  Returning  Spring. 

285.  The  Plain  ot  Lombardy. 

John  Keats,  1796-1821.  .     .     .  36a 

28<).  From  "  Ode  to  Autumn." 

287.  From  "  Ilvperion." 

288.  Ode  on  a  Grecian  Urn. 

289.  Moonlight. 

Thomas  Campbell,  1777-1844.  363 

2'.K).  Hope  bevond  the  Grave. 

291.  The  Soldier's  Dream. 

292.  Ye  Marwiers  of  England. 

293.  Hohenlinden. 


CHAPTER   XXI. 

Wordsworth,  Coleridge,  Southey,  and  other  Modern 

Poets. 


William    Wordsworth^     1770- 

1S50 368 

294.  Tlie  Greek  Mythology 

295.  Tintern  Abbey. 

296.  To  a  Skylark. 

297.  Portrait. 

298.  Milton. 

299.  We  are  Seven. 

300.  Crilicism  of  Poetry. 

Samuel      Taylor      Coleridge, 

1772-1S34.  .' 377 

301.  Genevieve. 

302.  Hymn  before  Sunrise  in  the  "Vale  of 

Chamouni. 

303.  Kubla  Khan ;  or,  a  "Vision  in  a  Dream. 

304.  A  Calm  on  the  Equator. 

305.  The  Phantom  Ship. 
30().  Truth. 

307.  Advantage  of  Jlethod. 

Robert  Southey,  1774-1843.     .  387 

;j08.  Tiie  Battle  of  Blenheim. 

309.  The  Evening  Rainb.iw. 

310.  Loid  William  and  Edmund. 

311.  From  the  "  Life  of  Nelson." 

Samuel  Rogers,  1763-1855.      .  393 

312.  Ginevra. 

Rev.  Charles  Wolfe, 1791-1823.  395 

olu.  The  Burial  of  Sir  John  jMoore. 

James  Montgomery,  1771-1854.  396 

;;I4.  The  Love  of  Country  and  of  Home. 
'315.  Prayer. 


Horace  Smith,  17S0-1S49.  .     .  397 

316.  Address  to  a  Mummy. 

George  Canning,  1770-1827.    .  399 

317.  The  Friend  of  Humanity  and  the  Knife- 

Grinder. 

John  Wilson,  1785-1854.      .     .  400 

318.  From  "The  City  of  the  Phiguc." 

John  Gibson  Lockhart,  1794- 

1854 402 

319.  Zara's  Ear-Rings. 

Robert  Pollok,  1790-1S27.  .     .  403 

320.  The  Genius  of  Byron. 

Felicia     Dorothea      Hemans, 

1 793-1 835 404 

321.  The  Treasures  of  the  Deep. 

Thomas  Hood,  1 798-1 845.    .       405 

322.  The  Biidge  of  Sighs. 

323.  The  Death-Bed. 

Elizabeth    Barrett   Browning, 

1S61 40S 

324.  Cowper's  Grave. 

Thomas  Babington  Macaulay, 

1800-1859 408 

325.  The  Battle  of  Ivry. 


CHAPTER  XXII. 

Letter  Writers  and  INIodern  Essayists,  with  Prose  Writers 

OF  THE  Nineteenth  Century. 


Horace  Walpole,  1717-1797.    .  411 

826.  Letter  to  Sir  Horace  Mann. 

William  Cowper,  1731-1800.       412 

827.  Letter  to  the  Rev.  John  Kewton. 
2U)i,  To  Lady  Uesketh. 


de    Qi.nncey,    1785- 


Thomas 
1859. 

:.;29.  Interview  with  a  Malay. 
3SU.  Opium  Dreams. 


415 


14 


CONTENTS. 


Sydney  Smith,  1771-1S45.  .     .  418 

331.  Wit. 

332.  From  "  The  Letters  of  Peter  Plymley." 

Francis  Jeffrey,  1773-1850.       .  421 

SiS.  English  Literature. 

Charles  JLamb,  1775-1834.        .  425 

334.  From    the    "Dissertation  upon  Roast 

Pig." 

335.  A  Quaker's  Meeting. 

John  Foster,  1770-1843.       .     .  430 

336.  Blessedness  of  a  Virtuous  Character. 

Henry  Hallam,  1777-1859.       .  431 

.337.  Evils  produced  by  the  Spirit  of  Chiv- 
alry. 

William  Hazlitt,  1778-1830.     .  432 

T38.  Influence  of   the    Translation  of   the 
Bible  upon  Ijlterature. 

Sir  William   Hamilton,   178S- 

1856 433 

339.  Matliematical    Study    an    insufficient 
Discipline. 


Thomas  Chalmers,  1780-1847.    434 

340.  The  Joy  of  Good,  and  the  Misery  of 

Evil  Aftections. 
Tlie      Force     of   Christian     Evidence 
streno;tliened  by  the  Christianity  of 
the  Witnesses. 

Thomas  Babington  Macaiilay, 

1800-1859 436 

341.  Fallacious  Distrust  of  Liberty. 

342.  Evils  of  the  Reign  of  Terror. 

Hugh  Miller,  1S02-1856.      .     .  43S 

343.  The  Future  History  of  Man  upon  tlie 

Globe. 
Pleasures  of  a  Life  of  Labor. 

Jeremy  Bentham,  1748-1832.   .   439 

344.  Jargon  of  the  English  Law. 

345.  Impossibility  of  a  Knowledge  of  the 

Common  Law  by  the  People. 


Richard  Whateley,  1787-1856. 

346.  Civilization  favorable  to  Morality. 


440 


CHAPTER   XXIII. 
Orators. 


347.  William     Pitt,     Earl 
Chatham,  1708-1778. 


of 


442 
444 


Edmund  Burke,  1731-1797. 

348.  From    his    "  Speech    on    Conciliation 

with  America,"  March  22,  1775. 
341).  Character  of  Lord  Chatham's  Second 

Administration,      and     of     Charles 

Towiishend,  1774. 

350.  Invasion  of  the  Carnatic  by  Hyder  Ali. 

Edward,  Lord  Thurlow,  1732- 

1806 450 

351.  Speech  in  Reply  to  the  Duke  of  Gratton. 

William    Pitt,    the   Younger, 

1759-1806 451 

352.  From  his  Speech  on  the  Abolition  of 

the  Slave  Trade,  April  2,  17U2. 

Charles  James  Fox,  1749-1806.  454 

353.  From  his  Speeoh  on  the  Address  on  the 

King's  Speech,  Nov.  26,  1778. 

354.  From  his  Speech  on  the  Overtures  of 

Peace  from  the  First  Consul,  Feb.  3, 
1800. 

355.  Character  of  Mr.  Fox  and  Mr.  Pitt 

Henry  Grattan,  1750-1820.       .  457 

356.  Attack  upon  Mr.  Flood. 

357.  Speech  against  Napoleon,  May  25, 1815. 

Richard     Brinsley    Sheridan, 

1751-1816 462 

358.  From  his  Speech  against  Warren  Has- 

tings in  the  House  of  Commons,  Feb. 
7, 1787. 


359.  From  his  Speech  against  Warren  Has- 

tings  in  Westminster  Hall,  June  3, 

1788. 

John    Philpot    Curran,    1750- 

1817 464 

360.  From  his  Speech  on  the  Trial  of  Archi- 

bald Hamilton  Rowan. 

Robert  Hall,  1764-1831.       .     . 

361.  The  War  with  Napoleon. 

Sir  James  Mackintosh,    1765- 


1832. 


362.  From  his  Speech  in  Defence  of  Peltier 

for  a  Libel  on  the  First  Consul  of 
France  —Bonaparte. 

Thomas,  Lord  Erskine,  1750- 
1823 

363.  Principles  of  the  Law  of  Libel. 

364.  From    his    Speech    on    the    Trial    of 

Thomas  Hardy. 

George  Canning,  1770-1827.    . 

365.  From  his  Speech  on  Parliamentary  Re- 

form. 

366.  Speecli  at  Plymouth  in  the  Year  1823, 

upon  the  Occasion  of  being  presented 
with  the  Freedom  of  that  Town. 

Lord  Brougham,  1779-1868.    . 

367.  Peril  of  denying  Just  Reforms. 

368.  Slavery  opposed  to  the  Law  of  Nature. 

Edward  Irving,  1792-1834. 

369.  The  Object  of  iMiracles. 

370.  Anticipation  of  a   Future   World    of 

Glory. 


464 
468 

469 

472 

474 
476 


INDEX   OF  AUTHORS. 


Page 

Addison,  Joseph 232 

Akenside,  Mark 2S7 

Alfred,  King 18,  19 

Ascham,  Roger 53 

Bacon,  Francis 93 

Barbour.  John ^s, 

Barrow,  Isaac.      .....  208 

Baxter,  Richard 156 

Beaumont  and  Fletcher.   .     .125 

Bcntham,  Jeremy 439 

Berkeley,  Bishop 242 

Berners,  Lord 49 

Blair,  Robert 282 

Bolingbroke,  Lord.        .     .     .  240 

Boyle,  Robert 213 

Brougham,  Lord 474 

Browne,  Sir  Thomas.         .     .   150 

Browne,  William 142 

Browning,  Elizabeth  B.    .     .  408 

Buckhurst,  Lord 73 

Bunyan,  John 197 

Burke,  Edmund.        .     .     272,444 

Burnet,  Gilbert 215 

Burns,  Robert.      .....  315 

Burton,  Robert 98 

Butler,  Samuel 182 

Butler,  Bishop 230 

Byron,  Lord 339 

Caedmon 17 

Campbell,  Thomas.  .  .  .  363 
Canning,  George.     .     .     399, 472 

Carew,  Thomas 142 

Caxton,  William 48 

Chalmers,  Thomas.  .  .  .  434 
Chatham,  Earl  of.  .  .  270, 442 
Chatterton,  Thomas.  .  .  .  310 
Chaucer,  Geoffrey.  .  .  .  29-36 
Chillingworth,  William.  .  .  149 
Clarendon,  Earl  of.        .     .     .  201 

Coleridge,  S.  T 377 

Collins,  William 286 

Cowley,  Abraham 146 

Cowper,  William.     .     .     295, 412 


Pa^e 
Crabbe,  George 311 

Crashaw,  Richard 13S 

Curran,  John  Philpot.        .     .  464 

Daniel,  Samue4 83 

Darwin,  Erasmus 307 

Davenant,  Sir  William.    .     .   144 

Davies,  Sir  John 85 

Defoe,  Daniel 244 

Denham,  Sir  John 145 

Donne,  John 86 

Doddridge,  Philip 254 

Drayton!^  Michael 84 

Drummond,  William.  ...     89 

Dryden,  John 184 

Dunbar  William 41 

Erskine,  Lord 469 

Evelyn,  John 205 

Falconer,  William 307 

Feltham,  Owen 158 

Fielding,  Henry 246 

Fletcher,  Giles 89 

Ford,  John 130 

Foster,  John 430 

Fox,  Charles  James.     .     .     .  454 

Fuller,  Thomas 151 

Gascoigne,  George.       •     •     •     73 

Gay,  John 226 

Gibbon,  Edward 259 

Goldsmith,  Oliver 250 

Gower,  John 26 

Grattan,  Henry 457 

Gray,  Thomas 288 

Habington,  William.    .     .     .  143 

Hales,  John 148 

Hall,  Bishop 87 

Hall,  Joseph i^S 

Hall,  Robert 465 

Hallam,  Henry 431 

Hamilton,  Sir  William.     .     .  433 

Hazlitt,  William 432 

Hemans,  Felicia  Dorothea.  .  404 

Herbert,  George 137 

Herbert,  Lord loa 

(1.0 


16 


INDEX  OF  AUTHORS. 


Herrick,  Robert 139 

Hobbes,  Thomas loi 

Hood.  Thomas 405 

Hooker,  Richard 92 

Howe,  John 214 

Hume,  David 255 

Irving,  Edward 476 

James  I.,  King 40 

Jeftrej,  Francis 421 

Johnson,  Samuel 264 

Jonson,  Ben 123 

Junius,  Letters  of.     ...     .  277 

Keats,  John 360 

Lamb,  Charles 425 

Latimer,  Hugh "51 

Lajamon 20 

Locke,  John 207 

Lockhart,  J.  Gibson.     .     .     .  402 

Lovelace,   Sir  R 141 

Ljndsay,  Sir  David.  ...  42 
Macaulaj,  Thomas  B.   .     40S,  436 

Mackintosh,  Sir  J 468 

Macpherson,  James.  .  .  .  308 
Mandeville,  Sir  John  de.  .  .  36 
Marlowe,  Christopher.      .     .  104 

Marvell,  Andrew 180 

Massinger,  Philip 129 

Miller,  Hugh 438 

Milton,  John 161 

Montagu,  Lady  Mary.  .  .  243 
Montgomery,  James.  .  .  .  396 
More,  Sir  Thomas.  ....     52 

Moore,  Thomas 351 

Newton,  Sir  Isaac 216 

Overbury,  Sir  Thomas.     .     .  159 

Paley,  William 280 

Parnell,  Thomas 228 

Pepys,  Samuel 205 

Pitt,  William,  Jun 451 

Pollok,  Robert 403 

Pope,  Alexander 218 

Prior,  Matthew 225 

Qiiarles,  Francis 136 

Qtiincey,  Thomas  de.  .  .  .  415 
Raleigh,  Sir  Walter.     .     .    80, 91 

Ray,  John .     .  197 

Robertson,  William.      .     .     .2^8 


Rogers,  Samuel 393 

Scott,  Sir  Walter 326 

Shaftesbury,  Lord 239 

Shakspeare,  William.   .     .     .   108 
Shelley,  Percy  B.  ...  357 

Shenstone,  William      .     .     .  285 
Sheridan,  Richard  B.   .      323,  462 

Sherlock,  William 212 

Shirley,  James 133 

Sidney,  Algernon 195 

Skelton,  John 44 

Smith,  Adam 279 

Smith,  Horace 397 

Smith,  Sj'dney 418 

Smollett,  Tobias  G.      .     .     .  247 

South,  Robert 211 

Southey,  Robert 3S7 

Southwell,  Robert 88 

Spenser,  Edmund.    ....     75 
Steele,  Sir  Richard.      .     .     .  237 

Sterne,  Laurence 248 

Suckling,  Sir  John 140 

Surrey,  Earl  of. 46 

Swift,  Jonathan 222 

Sj^dney,  Sir  Philip.       .     .    79, 90 

Taylor,  Jeremy 152 

Temple,  Sir  William.   .     .     .  238 

Thomson,  James 283 

Thurlow,  Lord 450 

Tillotson,  John 210 

Tyndale,  William 50 

Vaux,  Lord 47 

W^aller.  Edmund 143 

W^alton,  Izaak 203 

Walpole,  Horace 411 

Watts,  Isaac 254 

Whateley,  Richard.       .     .     .  440 

Webster.  John 131 

Wicliffe.'john  de 38 

Wilson,  John 400 

Wither,  George 136 

Wolcott,  John 322 

Wolfe,  Rev.  Charles.    .     .     .  39;^ 
Wordsworth,  William.      .     .  368 

Wyatt,  Sir  T 45 

Young,  Edward 22g 


■>   J  1  y       ■, 


J  '         > 


CilOICE 

SPECDIEXS   OF  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


CHAPTER  I. 


A.NGLO-SAXON,    SEMI-SAXON,    AND    OLD    ENGLISH    LITERATURE, 


A.  — ANGLO-SAXON. 
1.  —  Caedmon,  A.  D.  650.     T/ie  Creation.     (Manual,  p.  36.) 

(From  Guest's  English  Rhythms,  vol.  ii.  p.  32.) 

Ne  waes  her  tha  giet,  njmthe  heol-  ;  Ne  had  there  here  as  jet,  save  the 
ster-sceado,  |  vault-shadow, 

Wiht  geworden ;  ac  thes  wida  Aught  existed  ;  but  this  wide 
grund  abjss 

Stod  deop  and  dim  —  drihtne  Stood  deep  and  dim  —  strange  to 
fremde,^  its  Lord, 


IdeP  and  unnyt. 

On  thone  easrum  wlat 


Idle  ^  and  useless. 

On  it  with  eves  srlanc'd 


Stith-frihth  cining,  and  tha  stowe  ■  The  stalwart  king,  and  the  place 

beheold  j         beheld 

Dreama  lease.     Geseah  deorc  ges-    All  jojless.     He  saw  dark  cloud 

weorc  i 

Semian"^   sinnihte,    sweart    under    Lour   with    lasting    night,    swart 

roderum,  i  under  heaven, 

Wonn  ^  and  weste  ;  oth  thaet  theos  j  Wan  ■*  and  waste  ;  till  this  world's 

woruld-sresceaft  creation 


Thurh    word     gewearth     wuldor-  i  Rose   through    the    word   of    the 

cjninges.  |  glory-King. 

Her  ffirest  gesceop  ece  drihten  ■  Here  first  shap'd  the  eternal  Lord 

(Helm    eall-wihtal)    heofon    and    (Head  of  all  things  I)  heaven  and 

eorthan ;  earth  ; 

Rodor  arjErde,  and  this  rume  land    Sky  he  reard,  and  this  wide  land 
Gestathelode  — strangum  mihtum,    He     'stablish'd — by     his     strong 

might, 


Frea  selmihtig! 

Folde  was  tha  gyt 
Grais-ungrene ;  gar-secg  theahte, 


Lord  Almighty ! 

Earth  was  not  as  yet 
Green  with  grass  ;  ocean  cover'd, 


1  Fremde  has  a  double  ending  in  the  nominarive  —  one  vowel,  the  other  consonantal. 
S  Idel,  A.  S.,  barren,  idle.    Deserts  iiTle.  —  Ottiello     Idle  pebbles.  —  Lfar. 

3  Se7?»an  is  the  active  verb ;  semian.  I  believe,  is  always  neuter.    In  Caedmon  4- 

4  Wan,  in  the  sense  of  dismal,  was  long  known  to  our  poetry : 

Jtfin  Is  the  drenching  in  the  sea  so  icon.  —  Chaucer,  Knightes  Tale. 
2  (17) 


v> 


ANGLOS  A  KON. 


Chap.  L 


Sweart  synnihte,  side  and  wide, 

Wonne  waegas. 

Tha  waes  wuldor-torht, 
Heofon-weardes    gast    ofer    holm 

boren, 
Miclum  spedum. 

Metod  engla  heht, 
(Lifes  brytta)  leoht  forth  cuman 

Ofer  rumne  grund.  Rathe  w£es 
gefjlled 

Heah-cininges  haes  —  him  waes 
halig  leoht, 

Ofer  westenne,  swa  se  wjrhta  be- 
head. 


Swart  with  lasting  night,  wide  and 

/ar, 
Wan  pathways. 

Then  glory-bright, 
Was  the  spirit  of  Heaven's-Guard 

o'er  the  water  borne. 
With  mighty  speed. 

Bade  the  Angel-maker, 
(The  Life-dispenser)  light  to  come 

forth 
O'er  the  wide  abyss.     G^iick  was 

fulfil  I'd 
The  high  King's  best  —  round  him 

was  holy  light. 
Over    the    waste,    as    the    Maker 

bade. 


2.  King  Alfred.      O/il/icr's  Narrative^  in  Translatioii  of 

So'ethius.     (Manual,  p.  28.) 

(From  Marsh's  Orig^in  and  History  of  the  Eug-lisli  Language,  pp.  125-128.) 


Fela  spella  him  scedon  tha  Beor- 
mas,  cEgther  ge  of  hyra  agenum 
lande  ge  of  thaem  lande  the  ymb 
hy  utan  wxron ;  ac  he  nyste  hwa?t 
thajs  sothes  wier,  forthtem  he  hit 
sylf  ne  geseah.  Tha  Finnas  him 
thuhte,  and  tha  Beormas  spra^con 
neah  an  getheode.  Swithost  he 
for  thyder,  to-eacan  tha^s  landes 
sceawunge,  for  tha;m  hors-hwsel- 
um,  forthcem  hi  habbath  swvthe 
ajthele  ban  on  hyra  tothum,  tha 
teth  hy  brohton  sume  thaim  cy- 
nincge  :  and  hyra  hyd  bith  swythe 
god  to  scip-rapum.  Se  hwa^l  bith 
micle  lasssa  thonne  othre  hwalas, 
ne  bith  he  lengra  thonne  svfan 
elna  lang;  ac  on  his  agnum  lande  1 
is  sebetstahv/cel-huntath,thabeoth 
eahta  and  feowertiges  elna  lange, 
and  tha  maestan  fiftiges  elna  lange ; 
thara  he  siede  thtet  he  syxa  sum 
ofsloge  syxtig  on  twam  dagum. 
He  was  swythe  spedig  man  on 
thiein  gehtuin  the  heora  speda  on 
beoth,  thait  is  on  wild-deorum. 
He  haifde  tha-gyt,  tha  he  thone 
cyningc  sohte,  tamra  deora  unbe- 
bohtra  syx  bund.  Tha  deor  hi 
hatath  hranas,  thara  wreron  syx 
sticl-b.ranas,  tha  beoth  swythe  dyre 
mid  r'innum.  for-thaem  hy  fod  tha 
wiidan  hranas  mid. 


Many  things  him  told  the  Beor- 
mas, both  of  their  own  land  and  of 
the  land  that  around  them  about 
were;  but  he  wist-not  what  (of-) 
the  sooth  was,  for-that  he  it  self 
not  saw.  The  Finns  him  thought, 
and  the  Beormas  spoke  nigh  one 
language.  Chiefliest  he  fared  thi- 
ther, besides  the  land's  seeing,  for 
the  horse-whales,  for-that  thej' 
have  very  noble  bones  in  their 
teeth,  these  teeth  they  brought 
some  (to-)  the  king  :  and  their  hide 
is  vei'y  good  for  ship-ropes.  This 
whale  is  much  less  that  o^.her 
whales,  not  is  he  longer  than  seven 
ells  long;  but  in  his  own  lauvl  is 
the  best  whale-hunting,  they  are 
eight  and  forty  ells  long,  and  the 
largest  fifty  ells  long;  (of-)  these 
he  said  that  he  (of-)  six  some  slev/ 
sixty  in  two  days.  He  was  (a) 
very  wealthy  man  in  the  ownings 
that  their  wealth  in  is,  that  is  in 
wild-deer.  He  had  yet,  when  he 
the  king  sought,  (of-)  tame  deer 
unsold  six  hundred.  These  deer 
they  hight  reins,  (of-)  them  were; 
six  stale-reins,  these  are  very  dear 
with  (the)  Finns,  for-that  thev 
catch  the  wild  reins  with  (them). 


A.  D.  1150-1250. 


ANGLO-SAXON. 


19 


3.  King  Alfred.     Translation  of  the  Pastorale  of  St, 
Gregory.     (Manual,  p.  28.) 

(From  Wright's  Kiographia  Britannica  Literaria,  Anglo-Saxon  period,  p.  397.) 


Alfred  kyning  hateth  gretung 
Wulfsige  bisceop  his  worthum 
liiflice  and  freondlice,  and  the 
cjthan  hate,  thset  me  com  swithe 
oft  on  ge-mj'nd,  hwylce  witan  geo 
waeron  geond  Angel-cyn,  segther 
ge  godcundra  hada  ge  woruld- 
cundra,  and  hu  ge-sseliglica  tida 
tha  waeron  geond  Angle-cyn,  and 
iiu  tha  cj  ningas  the  thone  anweald 
hrefdon  thaes  folces,  Gode  and  his 
seryndwritum  hyrsumodon ;  and 
hu  hi  ccgther  ge  hcora  sjbbe  ge 
heora  svdo,  and  ge  heora  anweald 
innan  borde  gehealdon  and  eac  ut 
hira  ethel  rymdon ;  and  hu  him 
tha  speow,  legther  ge  mid  wige  ge 
mid  wisdome ;  and  eac  tha  god- 
cundan  hadas  hu  georne  hi  waeron 
ajgther  ge  ymbe  lara  ge  jmbe  leor- 
nunga,  and  jmbe  ealle  th-a  theow- 
domas  thi  by  Gode  sceoldon,  and 
hu  man  ut  on  borde  wisdome  and 
lare  hider  on  land  sohte,  and  hu 
we  hi  nu  sceoldon  utebegitan,  gif 
we  hi  habban  sceoldon.  Swa 
claene  heo  wiEs  othfeallen  on  An- 
gel-cynne  that  swithe  feawa  waeron 
beheonan  Huinbre  the  hira  the- 
nun^e  cuthon  understandan  on 
Englisc,  oththe  furthon  an  a;rend- 
ge-writof  Ledene  on  Englisc  arec- 
can  ;  and  ic  wene  th^et  naht  monige 
be-geondan  Humbre  natron.  Swa 
feawa  heora  waeron,  thaet  ic  fur- 
thon anne  senlepne  ne  mieg  ge- 
thencan  besuthan  Thamise  tha 
tha  ic  to  rice  feng.  Gode  aelmigh- 
tigum  sj  thane,  thaet  we  nu  aenigne 
an  steal  habbath  lareowa.  For 
tham  ic  the  beode,  thiet  thu  do 
swa  ic  ge-ljfe  that  thu  wille,  thiet 
thu  the  thissa  woruld  thinga  to 
tham  ge-aemtige,  swa  thu  oftost 
micge,  thaet  tbu  thone  wisdome 
the  the  God  sealde  thaer  thter  thu 
hine  befaestan  meege  befaest.  Ge- 
thenc  hwilce  witu  us  tha  becomon 
for  thisse  woruld,  tha  tha  we  hit' 
na  hwa'tl.f'  ue  scifc  m*  Ivifcdon.  ne 


Alfred  the  king  greets  affec- 
tionately and  friendly  bishop  Wulf- 
sige his  worthy,  and  I  bid  thee 
know,  that  it  occurred  to  me  very 
often  in  my  mind,  what  kind  of 
wise  men  there  formerly  were 
throughout  the  English  nation,  as 
well  of  the  spiritual  degree  as  of 
laymen,  and  how  happy  times 
there  were  then  among  the  Eng- 
lish people,  and  how  the  kings 
who  then  had  the  government  of 
the  people  obeyed  God  and  his 
Evangelists,  and  how  they  both  in 
their  peace  and  in  their  war,  and 
in  their  government,  held  them  at 
home,  and  also  spread  their  noble- 
ness abroad,  and  how  they  then 
flourished  as  well  in  war  as  in 
wisdom;  and  also  the  religious 
orders  how  earnest  they  were  both 
about  doctrine  and  about  learning, 
and  about  all  the  services  that  they 
owed  to  God ;  and  how  people 
abroad  came  hither  to  this  land  in 
search  of  wisdom  and  teach insT, 
and  how  we  now  must  obtain  them 
from  without  if  we  must  have  them. 
So  clean  it  was  ruined  amongst 
the  English  people,  that  there  were 
very  few  on  this  side  the  Humber 
who  could  understand  their  service 
in  English,  or  declare  forth  an 
epistle  out  of  Latin  into  English  ; 
and   I   think   that  there  were   not 

;  many  beyond  the  Humber.  So 
few  such  there  were,  that  I  cannot 
think  of  a  single  one  to  the  south 
of  the  Thames  when  I  began  to 
reign.  To  God  Almighty  be 
thanks,    that   we    now   have    any 

[  teacher  in  stall.  Therefore  I  bid 
thee  that  thou  do  as  I  believe  thou 
wilt,  that  thou,  who  pourest  out  to 
them  these  worldly  things  as  often 
as  thou  mayest,  that  thou  bestow 
the  wisdom  which  God  gave  thee 
wherever  thou  mayest  bestow  it. 
Think  what  kind  of  punishments 
shall  come  to  us  for  this  world,  if 


20 


SEMI-SAXON. 


Chap.  I. 


eac  othrum  mannum  ne  Ijfdon. 
Thone  naman  anne  we  lufdon 
thaet  we  Cristene  wseron,  and 
swithe  feawa  tha  theawas.  Tha  ic 
this  eal  ge-munde,  tha  ge-mund  ic 
eac  hu  ic  ge-seah  aer  tham  the  hit 
eal  for-heregod  waere  and  for- 
bcerned,  hu  tha  circan  geond  eal 
Angel-cjn  stodon  mathma  and 
boca  ge-fylled,  and  eac  micel 
maeniu  Godes  theawa,  and  tha 
swithe  lytie  feorme  thara  boca 
wiston,  for  tham  the  hi  hira  nan 
thing  ongitan  ne  mihton,  for  tham 
the  hi  naeron  on  hira  agenge 
theode  awritene.  Swilce  hi  cwie- 
don  ure  yldran,  tha  the  thas  stowa 
ser  heoldon,  hi  lufedon  wisdome, 
and  thurh  thone  hi  begeton  welan 
and  us  Isefdon. 


we  neither  loved  it  ourselves  noi 
left  it  to  other  men.  We  have 
loved  only  the  name  of  being 
Christians,  and  very  few  the  duties. 
When  I  thought  of  all  this,  then  I 
thought  also  how  I  saw,  before  it 
was  all  spoiled  and  burnt,  how  the 
churches  throughout  all  the  Eng- 
lish nation  were  filled  with  treas- 
ures and  books,  and  also  with  a 
great  multitude  of  God's  servants, 
and  yet  they  knew  very  little  fruit 
of  the  books,  because  they  could 
understand  nothing  of  them,  be- 
cause they  were  not  written  in 
their  own  language ;  as  they  say 
our  elders,  who  held  these  places 
before  them,  lo^ed  wisdom,  and 
through  it  obtained  weal  and  left 
it  to  us. 


B.  — SEMI-SAXON. 

4.   Layamon.     Brut^  1 150-1250.      The  JJ-^-eairi  of  ArtJiur. 

(Manual,  p.  33.) 

(From  Sir  F.  Madden's  Edition,  vol.  iii.  pp.  118-121.) 


To  niht  a  mine  slepe, 
Ther  ich  laei  on  bure, 
Mei  maette  a  sweuen ; 
Ther  uore  ich  ful  sari  aem. 
Me  imette  that  mon  me  hof 
Uppen  are  halle. 
Tha  halle  ich  gon  bestriden, 
Swulc  ich  wolde  riden 
Alle  tha  lond  tha  ich  ah 

Alle  ich  ther  ouer  sah. 

And  Walwain  sat  biuoren  me; 

Mi  sweord  he  bar  an  honde. 

Tha  com  Moddred  faren  ther 

Mid  unimete  uolke. 

He  bar  an  his  honde 

Ane  wiax  stronge. 

He  bigon  to  hewene 

Hardliche  swithe, 

And  tha  postes  for-heou  alle 

Tha  heolden  up  the  halle. 

Ther  ich  isey  Wenheuer  eke, 

Wimiuonen  leofuest  me  : 
Al  there  muche  halle  rof 
Mid  hire  honden  heo  to-droh. 


To-night  in  my  sleep  (bed), 

Where  I  lay  in  chamber, 

I  dreamt  a  dream,  — 

Therefore  I  am  "  full "  sorry. 

I  dreaint  that  men  raised  (set)  me 

Upon  a  hall ; 

The  hall  I  gan  bestride, 

As  if\  would  ride; 

All    the    lands    that    I   possessed 

(had;, 
All  I  there  overlooked  (them  saw). 
And  Walwain  sate  viefore  me; 
Mv  sword  he  bare  in  hand. 
Then  approached  Modred  there, 
With  innumerable  folk; 
He  bare  in  his  hand 
A  "battle  "-axe  (most)  strong; 
He  began  to  hew 
Exceeding  hardijy; 
And  the  posts  all  hewed  in  pieces, 
That  held  up  the  hall. 
There  I  saw  Wenhaver  eke   (the 

queen), 
"  Dearest  of  women  to  me  "  ; 
All  the  mickle  hall  roof 
With  her  hand  she  drew  down ; 


A.  D.  1150-1250. 


SEMI-SAXON. 


21 


Tha  halle  gon  to  haelden, 
And  ich  haeld  to  grunden, 
That  mi  riht  aerm  to-brac. 

Tha  seide  Modred,  Haue  that  I 

Adun  ueol  tha  halle 

And  Walwain  gon  to  ualle, 

And  feol  a  there  eorthe ; 
His  aermes  brekeen  beine. 
And  ich  igrap  mi  sweord  leofe 

Mid  mire  leoft  honde, 

And  smaet  of  Modred  is  haft, 

That  hit  wond  a  thene  ueld  ; 

And  tha  quene  ich  al  to-smathde, 

Mid  deore  mine  sweorde, 

And  seodthen  ich  heo  adun  sette 

In  ane  swarte  putte. 

And  al  mi  uolc  riche 

Sctte  to  fleme, 

That  nuste  ich  under  Criste 

Whar  heo  bicomen  weoren. 

Buten  mi  seolf  ich  gond  atstonden 

Uppen  ane  wolden 

And  ich  ther  wondrien  agon 

Wide  yeond  than  moren. 

Ther  ich  isah  gripes 

And  grisliche  fugheles. 

Tha  com  an  guldene  leo 

Lithen  ouer  dune. 

Deoren  swithe  hende, 

Tha  ure  Drihten  make. 

Tha  leo  me  orn  foren  to, 

And  iueng  me  bi  than  midle, 
And  forth  hire  gun  yeongen 

And  to  there  sae  wende. 
And  ich  isaeh  thae  vthen 
I  there  sae  driuen  ; 
And  the  leo  i  than  ulode 
Iwende  with  me  seolue. 
Tha  wit  i  sae  comen, 
Tha  vthen  me  hire  binomen. 
Com  ther  an  fisc  lithe, 

And  fereden  me  to  londe. 

Tha  wes  ich  al  wet. 

And  weri  of  sorjen,  and  seoc. 

Tha  gon  ich  iwakien 
Swithe  ich  gon  to  quakien ; 
Tha  gon  ich  to  binicn 
Swule  ich  al  fur  burne. 
And  swa  ich  habbe  al  niht 


The  hall  gan  to  tumble, 

And  I  tumbled  to  the  ground. 

So  that  mj  right    arm   brake   in 

pieces,  — 
Then  said  Modred,  "Have  that!" 
Down  fell  the  hall ; 
And   Walwain    gan    to   fall    (was 

fallen), 
And  fell  on  the  earth  ; 
His  arms  both  brake. 
And   I   grasped    my  dear   (good) 

sword 
With  my  left  hand. 
And  smote  of  Modred  his  head, 
So  that  it  rolled  on  the  field. 
And  the  queen  I  "  cut  all  in  pieces 
With  my  dear  sword, 
And  afterwards  I  "  set  "  her  "  down 
In  a  black  pit. 
And  all  my  good  people 
Set  to  flight, 

So  that  I  knew  not  under  Christ 
Where  (that)  they  were  gone. 
But  myself  I  gan  stand 
Upon  a  weald, 
"And  I  there  gan  to  wander 
Wide  over  the  moors  " ; 
There  I  saw  gripes. 
And  grisly  (wondrous)  fowls  ! 
Then  approached  a  golden  lion 
Over  tke  down  ;  — 
"A  beast  most  fair. 
That  our  Lord  made  " ;  — 
The  (this)  lion  ran  towards  (^quickly 

to)  me. 
And  took  "me"  by  the  middle. 
And  forth  gan  her  move  (he  gan  me 

carry), 
And  to  the  sea  went. 
"And  I  saw  the  waves 
Drive  in  the  sea"; 
And  the  lion  in  the  flood 
Went  with  myself. 
When  we  came  in  tke  sea, 
The  waves  took  her  from  me ; 
But  there  approached  (came  swim- 
ming) a  fish. 
And  brought  me  to  land ;  — 
Then  was  I  all  wet, 
"  And  "  weary  "  from  sorrow,"  and 

(very)  sick. 
When  I  gan  to  wake. 
Greatly  (then)  gan  I  to  quake; 
"Then  gan  I  to  tremble 
As  if  I  al  burnt  with  fire." 
And  so  (thus)  I  have  all  night 


•2> 


OLD  ENGLISH. 


C^p.  1 


Of  mine  sweuene  swithe  ithoht; 

For  ich  .vhat  to  iwisse 

Agan  is  all  mi  blisse; 

For  a  to  mine  Hue 

Sorjen  ich  not  drije. 

Wale  thit  ich  nabbe  here 

Wenhauer  mine  quene ! 


Of  mj  dream  much  thought; 
I  For  I  wot  (all)  with  certainty^ 
Gone  is  all  my  bliss, 
For  ever  in  my  life 
Sorrow  I  must  endure ! 
Alas !  that  I  have  (had)  not  here 
Wenhaver,  my  queen  I 


5,    The  Onnulum.     (Manual,  p.  33.)  /- .  i        1     , 

(Edited  by  Dr.  White,  Oxford,  1852.) 


Nu,    brotherr    Wallterr,    brotherr 

min 
Affterr  the  flaeshes  kinde ; 
Annd    brotherr   min   i   Crisstenn- 

dom 
Thurrh  fulluhht  and  thurrh  trow- 

wthe ; 
Annd  brotherr  niin  i  Godess  hus, 
Yet  o  the  thr'de  wise, 
Thurrh  thatt  witt  hafenn  takenn  ba 
An  reghellboc  to  folghenn, 
Unnderr  kanunnkess  had  and  lif, 

Swa  summ  Sant  Awwstin  sette; 
Ich  hafe  don  swa  summ  thu  badd 
Annd  forthedd  te  thin  wille; 


Ice  hafe  wennd  inntill  Ennglissh 


Goddspelless  hallghe  lafe, 
Affterr  thatt  little  witt  tatt  me 
Min  Drihhtin  hafethth  lenedd. 


Now,  brother  Walter,  brother  mire 

After  the  flesh's  kind  (or  nature)  ; 

And  brother  mine  in  Christendom 
(or  Christ's  kingdom) 

Through  baptism  and  through 
truth  ; 

And  brother  mine  in  God's  house, 

Yet  on  (in)  the  third  wise,      [both 

Though   that  we   two  have   taken 

One  rule-book  to  follow, 

Under  canonic's  (canon's)  rank 
and  life. 

So  as  St.  Austin  set  (or  ruled)  ; 

I  have  done  so  as  thou  bade 

And  performed  thee  thine  will 
(wish)  ; 

I  have  wended  (turned)  into  Eng- 
lish 

Gospel's  holy  lore. 

After  that  little  wit  that  me 

My  Lord  hath  lent. 


C  — OLD    ENGLISH,    1250-1350. 
S»   Henry  III.     Proclamation  in  K.T>.  1258. 

(From  Marsh's  Origin  and  History  of  the  English  Language,  pp.  192, 193.) 


Henr',  thurg  Godes  fultume  King 
on  Engleneloande,  Ihoaverd  on 
Irloand,  duk'  on  Norm',  on  Aqui- 
tain',  and  eorl  on  Aniow,  send 
igretinge  to  all  hise  halde  ilaerde 
and  ilaewede  on  Huntendon' 
schir'. 

Thaet  witen  ge  wel  alle,  thaet 
we  willen  and  unnen,  thaet  thaet 
ure  laedesmen  alle  other  the  moare 
dael  of  heom,  thaet  beoth  ichosen 
thai  g"  us  and  thurg  thaet  loandes 


Henry,  by  the  grace  of  God  king 
in  (of)  England,  lord  in  (of)  Ire- 
land, duke  in  (of)  Normandy,  in 
(of)  Aquitiiine,  and  earl  in  (of) 
Anjou,  sends  greeting  to  all  his 
lieges,  clerk  and  lay,  in  Hunting 
donshire. 

This  know  ye  well  all,  that  we 
will  and  grant  that  what  our  coun- 
cillors, all  or  the  major  part  of 
them,  who  are  chosen  by  us  and 
hy  ^he  land's  people  in  our  king- 


A.  D.  Ud0-I3o0. 


OLD   ENGLISH. 


2% 


folk  on  ure  kuneriche,  habbeth 
idon  and  schullen  don  in  the  worth- 
nesse  of  Gode  and  on  ure  treowthe 
for  the  freme  of  the  loande  thurg 
the  besigte  of  than  toforeniseide 
redesmen,  beo  stedefaest  and  iles- 
tinde  in  alle  thinge  a  buten  aende, 
and  we  hoaten  alle  ure  treowe  in 
the  treowthe,  that  heo  us  ogen, 
Lhaet  heo  stedefaestliche  healden 
and  swerien  to  healden  and  to 
werien  the  isetnesses,  thaet  beon 
imakede  and  beon  to  makien  thurg 
than  toforeniseide  raedesrnen  other 
thurg  the  moare  dael  of  heom 
alswo  alse  hit  is  biforen  iseid,  and 
thaet  aehc  other  helpe  thaet  for  to 
done  bi  than  ilche  othe  agenes  alle 
men  rigt  for  to  done  and  to 
ibangen,  and  noan  ne  nime  of 
loande  ne  of  egte,  where-thurg 
this  besigte  miige  beon  ilet  other 
iwersed  on  onie  wise  and  g  f  oni 
other  onie  cumen  her  on^enes,  we 
willen  and  hoaten,  thaet  alle  ure 
treowe  heom  healden  deadliche 
ifoan,  and  for  thaet  we  wllen, 
thaet  this  beo  stedefaest  and  les- 
tinde,  we  senden  gew  this  writ 
open  iseined  with  ure  seel  to  halden 
amanges  gew  ine  liord. 

Witnesse  usselven  aet  Lunden' 
thane  egtetenthe  dav  on  the 
monthe  of  Octobr'  in  the  two  and 
fowertigthe  geare  of  ure  cruninge. 

And  this  wes  idom  aetforen  ure 
'sworene  redesmen  : 

[here  follow  the  signatures  of 
several  redesmen  or  councillors] 

and  aetforen  othre  moge. 

And  al  on  tho  ilche  worden  is 
itend  in  to  aeurihce  othre  shcire 
ouer  al  thaere  kuneriche  on  Ensrle- 
neloande  and  ek  in  tel  Irelonde. 


dom,  have  done  and  shall  do,  to 
the  honor  of  God  and  in  allegiance 
to  us,  for  the  good  of  the  land,  by 
the  ordinance  of  the  aforesaid 
councillors,  be  steadfast  and  per- 
manent in  all  things,  time  without 
end,  and  we  command  all  our 
lieges  by  the  faith  that  they  owe 
us,  that  they  steadfastly  hold,  and 
swear  to  hold  and  defend  the  regu- 
lations that  are  made  and  to  be 
made  by  the  aforesaid  councillors, 
or  by  the  major  part  of  them,  as  is 
before  said,  and  that  each  help 
others  this  to  do,  by  the  same  oath, 
against  all  men,  right  to  do  and  to 
receive,  and  that  none  take  of  land 
or  goods,  whereby  this  ordinance 
may  be  let  or  impaired  in  any  wise, 
and  if  any  [sing.]  or  any  [plural] 
transgress  here  against,  we  will  and 
command  that  all  our  lieges  them 
hold  as  deadly  foes,  and  because 
we  will  that  this  be  steadfast  and 
permanent,  we  send  you  these  let- 
ters patent  sealed  with  our  seal,  to 
keep  among  you  in  custody. 


Witness  ourself  at  London  the 
eighteenth  day  in  the  month  of 
October  in  the  two  and  fortieth 
year  of  our  coronation. 

And  this  was  done  before  oui 
sworn  councillors  : 

[Signatures] 

and  before  other  nobles  [.''] 

And  all  in  the  same  words  is 
sent  into  every  other  shire  over  all 
the  kingdom  in  (of)  England  and 
also  into  Ireland. 


y.   King  Allsaiindei'.     (Manual,  p.  34.) 

(From  Guest's  History  of  English  Rhythms,  vol.  ii.  p.  142.) 


Averil   is  merry,   and  longith  the 

day ; 
Ladies  loven  solas  and  play; 
Swaynes  justes  ;  knyghtis  turnay; 


April    is    merry,    and    length'neth 

the  day; 
Ladies  love  solace  and  play; 
Swains    the  jousts ;    knights    the 

tournay ; 


24 


OLD  EN-GLISE. 


Chap.  I. 


Syiigeth  the  nyghtjngale  ;  gredeth 

theo  jaj'; 
The  hote  sunne  chongeth  the  clay ; 
A.S  ye  well  yseen  may. 


Singeth  the  nightingale;  scream- 

eth  the  jay; 
The  hot  sun  changeth  the  clay; 
As  ye  well  may  see. 

—  A/i'saunder,  14a 


8,   Havelok.     (Manual,  p.  34.) 


%'l(i 


(From  Guest's  History  of  English  Rhythms,  vol.  ii.  pp.  142-145.) 


Till" that  he 

tunge, 
Speken,    and 
Knictes     and 
siden. 


Hwan  he  was  hosled  and  shriven, 
His   quiste   maked,    and    for    him 

given, 
His  knictes  dede  he  alle  site, 
For  thorw  them  he  wolde  wite, 
Hwo    micte    yeme    hise   children 
yunge, 

couthen  speken  wit 

[riden, 

gangen,    on    horse 

sweynes     bi    hete  ^ 

[sone 

He  spoken  there  offe  —  and  chosen 
A    riche    man   was,    that,    under 

mone, 
Was  the  trewest  that  he  wende  — 
Godard,  the  kinges  oune  frende; 
And    sej^den,    he     moucthe    hem 

best  loke 
Yif  that  he  hem  undertoke, 
Till  hise  sone  mouthe  here 
Helm  on  heued,  and  leden  ut  here, 
(In  his  hand  a  spere  stark) 
And  king  ben  maked  of  Denmark. 


When  he  was  housled  and  shriven, 
His  bequests  made,   and  for  him 

given, 
His  knights  he  made  all  sit, 
For  from  them  would  he  know. 
Who    should    keep    his    children 

young, 
Till  they  knew  how  to  speak  with 

tongue,  [horse, 

To  speak,  and  walk,  and  ride  on 
Knights  and  servants  by  their  side. 

[soon 
They  spoke  thereof —  and  chosen 
Was     a     rich    man,    that,    under 

moon, 
Was  the  truest  that  they  knew  — 
Godard,  the  king's  own  friend; 
And  said  they,  he  might  best  them 

keep 
If  their  charge  he  undertook, 
Till  his  son  might  bear 
Heim  on  head,  and  lead  out  host, 
(In  his  hand  a  sturdy  spear) 
And  king  of  Denmark  should  be 

made. 


1  This  is  clearly  a  mistake  for  here. 


9»  Robert  of  Gloucester.     (Manual,  p.  33.) 


Thuse   come   lo !    Engelond    into 

Normannes  honde, 
And  the  Normans  ne  couthe  speke 

tho.bote  her  owe  speche, 
And  speke  French  as  dude  atom, 

and  here  chyldren  dude  al  so 

teche ; 
So  that  hej'men  of  thys  lond,  that 

of  her  blod  come, 
Holdcth  alle  thulke  speche  that  hii 

of  hem  nome. 
Vor  bote  a  man  couthe  French  me 

tolth  of  hym  wel  lute ; 


Thus  came  lo !  England  into  Nor- 

mans'-hand. 
And  the  Normans  not  could  speak 

then  but  their  own  speech, 
And  spake  French  as  (they)  did 

at   home,   and   their  children 

did  all  so  teach  : 
So  that  high  men  of  this  land,  that 

of  their  blood  come, 
Hold  all  the  same  speech  that  they 

of  them  took; 
For  but  a  man  know  French  men 

tell  (reckon)  of  him  well  little: 


A.  D.  1250-135a 


OLD  ENGLISH. 


25 


Ac  lowe  men  holdeth  to  Englyss 

and  to  her  kunde  speche  yute. 
Ich  wane  ther  ne  be  man  in  world 

contreves  none 
That    ne   holdeth    to    her    kunde 

speche,  hot  Engelond  one. 
Ac  wel  me  wot  vor  to  conne  both 

wel  yt  ys ; 
Vor  the  more  that  a  man  con,  the 

more  worth  he  ys. 


But  low  men  nold  to  English  and 

to  their  natural  speech  yet. 
I  wen  there  not  be  man  in  world 

countries  none 
That  not  holdeth  to  their  natural 

speech  but  England  (al-)  one- 
But  well  I  wot  for  to  know  both 

well  it  is : 
For  the  more  that  a  man  knows, 

the  more  worth  he  is. 


10.  Robert  Mannyng  or  Robert  of  Brunnb. 

(Manual,  p.  33.) 


Lordynges,  that  be  now  here, 

If  ye  wille  listene  &  lere 

AH  the  story  of  Inglande, 

Als    Robert    Mannyng   wryten    it 

fand, 
&  on  Inglysch  has  it  schewed, 
Not  for  the  lerid  bot  for  the  lewed, 

For  tho  that  in  this  land  wonn, 
That  the  Latyn  no  Frankys  conn. 
For  to  haf  solace  &  gamen 

In  felawschip  when  thai  sitt  samen. 


Lords,  that  be  now  here, 

If  ye  will  listen  and  learn 

All  the  story  of  England, 

As  Robert  Mannyng  found  it  writ- 
ten. 

And  in  English  has  shewed  it, 

Not  for  the  learned  but  for  the  un- 
learned, 

For  those  that  in  this  land  dwell. 

That  know  not  Latin  nor  French, 

In  order  to  have  solace  and  enjoy- 
ment 

In  fellowship  when  the/  sit  to- 
gether. 


26  PIERS  PLOUGHMAN,  Chap.  IL 


CHAPTER  II. 
THE    AGE    OF    CHAUCER 


Urn  The  Vision  of  Piers  Ploughman^  i35o»    (Manual,  p.  54.) 

Satire  of  Lawyers. 

Yet  hoved  ^  ther  an  hundred 

In  howves  ^  of  selk, 

Sergeantz  it  bi-semed 

That  serveden  at  the  barre, 

Pleteden  for  penjes 

And  poundes  the  lawe ; 

And  noght  for  love  of  our  Lord 

Unlose  hire  lippes  ones. 

Thow  mjghtest  bettre  meete  mjst 

On  Malverne  hilles, 

Than  gete  a  mom  of  hire  mouth, 

Til  moneie  be  shewed. 

1  Aoved,  waited.  2  hovovet,  hooks  or  caps. 


X^*  John  Gower,  d.  140S.     Confessio  Amantis,    (Manual, 

p.  56,  seq.) 

Tale  of  the  Coffers  or  Caskets. 
From  the  Fifth  Book. 

In  a  Cronique  thus  I  rede : 
Aboute  a  king,  as  must  nede, 
Ther  was  of  knjghtes  and  squiers 
Gret  route,  and  eke  of  officers  : 
Some  of  long  time  him  hadden  served, 
And  thoughten  that  they  haue  deserved 
Avanc^ment,  and  gon  withoute  : 
And  some  also  ben  of  the  route, 
That  comen  but  a  while  agon, 
And  they  avanced  were  anon. 

These  olde  men  upon  this  thing. 
So  as  they  durst,  ageyne  the  king 


A.  D.  13S0.  GOWER.  27 

Among  hemself  ^  compleignen  ofte: 

But  there  is  nothing  said  so  sofie, 

That  it  ne  comith  out  at  laste  : 

The  king  it  wiste,  and  als  so  faste, 

As  he  ivhich  was  of  high  prudence : 

He  shope  therfore  an  evidence 

Of  hem  ^  that  pleignen  in  the  cas, 

To  knowe  in  whose  defalte  it  was; 

And  all  within  his  owne  entent, 

That  non  ma  wiste  what  it  ment. 

Anon  he  let  two  cofres  make 

Of  one  semblance,  and  of  one  make, 

So  lich,^  that  no  lif  thilke  throwe, 

That  one  may  fro  that  other  knowe  : 

They  were  into  his  chamber  brought, 

But  no  man  wot  why  they  be  wrought. 

And  natheles  the  king  hath  bede 

That  they  be  set  in  privy  stede, 

As  he  that  was  of  wisdom  slih; 

Whan  he  therto  his  time  sih,* 

All  prively,  that  none  it  wiste 

His  ownfe  hondes  that  one  chiste 

Of  fin  gold,  and  of  fin  perie,* 

The  which  out  of  his  tresorie 

Was  take,  anon  he  fild  full ; 

That  other  cofre  of  straw  and  mull  • 

With  stones  meynd'  he  fild  also:  "^ 

Thus  be  they  full  bothe  two. 

So  that  erliche  **  upon  a  day 
He  had  within,  where  he  lay, 
Ther  should  be  tofore  his  bed 
A  bord  up  set  and  fair^  spred  : 
And  than  he  let  the  cofres  fette  ' 
Upon  the  bord,  and  did  hem  sette. 
He  knewe  the  names  well  of  tho,"' 
The  whiche  agein  him  grutched  so, 
Both  of  his  chambre  and  of  his  halle, 
Anon  and  sent  for  hem  alle ; 
And  seide  to  hem  in  this  wise. 

There  shall  no  man  his  hap  despise : 
I  wot  well  ye  have  longe  served. 
And  God  wot  what  ye  have  deserved; 
But  if  it  is  along  on  me 
Of  that  ye  unavanced  be. 
Or  elles  if  it  belong  on  yow, 

I  ThemBclreg.  2  Them.  3  Like.  4  Saw.  5  Jewels,  or  precioni  tUmm, 

•  RubbUh.  7  Mingled.  8  Early.  0  Fetched.  V)  ThoM. 


28  GO  WEB,  ^       Chap.  IL 

The  soth^  shall  be  proved  now : 

To  stopp^  with  your  evil  word, 

Lo  I  here  two  cofres  on  the  bord ; 

Chese  which  you  list  of  bothfe  two; 

And  witeth  well  that  one  of  tho 

Is  with  tresor  so  full  begon, 

That  if  ye  happ6  therupon 

Ye  shall  be  rich^  men  for  ever : 

Now  chese/^  and  take  which  you  is  lever, 

But  be  well  ware  ere  that  ye  take, 

For  of  that  one  I  undertake 

Ther  is  no  maner  good  therein, 

Wherof  ye  mighten  profit  winne. 

Now  goth  *^  together  of  one  assent, 

And  taketh  your  avisement; 

For,  but  I  you  this  day  avance, 

It  stant  upon  your  own^  chance, 

Al  only  in  defalte  of  grace; 

So  shall  be  shewed  in  this  place 

Upon  you  all  well  afyn,^'^ 

That  no  defalte  shal  be  myn. 

They  knelen  all,  and  with  one  vois 
The  king  they  thonken  of  this  chois  : 
And  after  that  they  up  arise. 
And  gon  aside,  and  hem  avise, 
And  at  laste  they  accorde 
(Wherof  her  ^'^  talh  to  recorde 
To  what  issue  they  be  falle) 
A  knyght  shall  speke  for  hem  alle : 
He  kneleth  doun  unto  the  king. 
And  seith  that  they  upon  this  thing, 
Or  for  to  winne,  or  for  to  lese,'^ 
Ben  all  avised  for  to  chese. 

Tho  '®  toke  this  knyght  a  yerd  "  on  honde, 
And  goth  there  as  the  cofres  stonde, 
And  with  assent  of  everychone  ^^ 
He  leith  his  yerde  upon  one, 
And  seith  ^^  the  king  how  thilke  same 
They  chese  in  reguerdon  ^°  by  name, 
And  preith  him  that  they  might  it  have. 

The  king,  which  wolde  his  honor  save, 
Whan  he  had  heard  the  common  vois, 
Hath  granted  hem  her  owne  chois, 
And  toke  hem  therupon  the  keie ; 
But  for  he  wold6  it  were  seie  ^' 

11  Choocc.  18  Go.  13  At  last.  14  Their.  15  Lose.  19  Then.  IT  A  roX 

IS  Every  one.  19  Sayetli  to  the  king.        20  Au  their  reward.  31  Sceo. 


\ 


A..  D.  1328-1400.  CHAUCEB.  29 

What  good  thej  have  as  they  suppose, 
He  bad  anon  the  cofre  unclose, 
Which  was  fulfild  with  straw  and  stones : 
Thus  be  they  served  all  at  ones. 

This  king  than,  in  the  sam^  stede, 
Anon  that  other  cofre  undede, 
Where  as  they  sihen  gret  richesse, 
Wei  more  than  they  couthen  gesse. 

Lo  !  seith  the  king,  now  may  ye  se 
That  ther  is  no  defalte  in  me; 
Forthy^^  my  self  I  wol  aquite, 
And  bereth  ye  your  own^  wite  ^ 
Of  that  ■^'*  fortune  hath  you  refused. 

Thus  was  this  wise  king  excused  : 
And  they  lefte  off  her  evil  speche, 
And  mercy  of  her  king  beseche. 

23  Therefore.  23  Blame.  84  f.  e.  that  which. 


13.  Chaucer,  1328-1400.     (Manual,  p.  35,  seq.) 
From  the  Prologue  to  the  Canterbury  Tales. 

Whann^  that  April  with  his  shoures  sote  ' 

The  droughte  of  March  hath  perced  to  the  rote,* 

And  bathed  every  veine  in  swiche  '^  licour, 

Of  whiche  vertiie  engendred  is  the  flour; 

Whan  Zephirus  eke  with  his  sot^  brethe 

Enspired  hath  in  every  holt  and  hethe 

The  tendre  croppes,  and  the  yonge  sonne 

Hath  in  the  Ram  his  halfe  cours  yronne,* 

And  smale  foules  maken  melodie, 

That  slepen  alle  night  with  open  eye, 

So  priketh  hem  ^  nature  in  hir  ^  corages ;  ^ 

Than  longen  folk  to  gon  on  pilgrimages. 

And  palmeres  for  to  seken  Strang^  strondes. 

To  serve  ^  halweys^  couthe  '"  in  sondry  londes; 

And  specially,  from  every  shires  ende 

Of  Englelond,  to  Canterbury  they  wende,^* 

The  holy  blisful  martyr  for  to  seke, 

That  hem  hath  holpen,  whan  that  they  were  seke.'* 

Befelle,  that,  in  that  seson  on  a  day, 
In  Southwerk  at  the  Tabard  as  I  lay, 
Redy  to  wenden  on  my  pilgrimage 
To  Canterbury  with  devoute  corage, 

I  8%eet.  2  Root  3  Such.  4  Run.  5  Them.  6  Their.  T  IncliuftUoB. 

8  To  keep.  9  Holidays.  lo  Known.  U  Go.  12  Sick. 


80  CHAUCER.  Chap.  II 

At  night  was  come  into  that  hostelrie 
Wei  nine  and  twenty  in  a  compagnie 
Of  sondrj  folk,  by  aventure  yfalle  *^ 
In  felawship,  and  pilgrimes  were  they  alle, 
That  toward  Canterbury  wolden  '"*  ride. 
The  chambres  and  the  stables  weren  wide, 
And  wel  we  weren  esed  atte  beste. 

And  shortly,  whan  the  sonne  was  gon  to  reste, _ 
So  hadde  I  spoken  with  hem  everich  on  ^* 
That  I  was  of  hir  felawship  anon, 
And  mad6  forword  erly  for  to  rise. 
To  take  oure  way  ther  as  I  you  devise. 

But  natheles,  while  I  have  time  and  space. 
Or  that  I  forther  in  this  talfe  pace, 
Me  thinketh  it  accordant  to  reson, 
To  tellen  you  alle  the  condition 
Of  eche  of  hem,  so  as  it  semed  me, 
And  whiche  they  weren,  and  of  what  degre; 
And  eke  in  what  araie  that  they  were  inne : 
And  at  a  knight  than  wol  I  firste  beginne. 

13  Fallen.  H  Would.  15  Eve/y  one. 

The  Knight. 

A  Knight  ther  was,  and  that  a  worthy  man, 
That  fro  the  tim^  that  he  firste  began 
To  riden  out,  he  loved  Chevalrie, 
Trouthe  and  honour,  fredom  and  curtesie. 
Ful  worthy  was  he  in  his  lordes  werre,^ 
And  therto  hadde  he  ridden,  no  man  ferre,* 
As  wel  in  Cristendom  as  in  Hethenesse, 
And  ever  honoured  for  his  worthinesse. 

At  Alisandre  he  was  whan  it  was  wonne. 
Ful  often  time  he  hadde  the  bord^  begonne* 
\  Aboven  all^  nations  in  Pruce. 

In  Lettowe  hadde  he  reysed  ^  and  in  Ruce, 

No  cristen  man  so  ofte  of  his  degre. 

In  Gernade  at  the  siege  eke  hadde  he  be 

Of  Algesir,  and  ridden  in  Belmarie. 

At  Leyes  was  he,  and  at  Satalie, 

Whan  they  were  wonne ;  and  in  the  Grete  see 

At  many  a  noble  armee  hadde  he  be. 

At  mortal  batailles  hadde  he  ben  fiftene. 

And  foughten  for  our  faith  at  Tramiss^ne 

In  listes  thries,  and  ay  slain  his  fo. 

This  ilke  worthy  knight  hadde  ben  also 

I  War.  2  Farther.  8  4  Been  placed  at  the  head  of  the  table.  6  Travelled 


A.  D.  1328-1400.  CHAUCER,  31 

Sometimfe  with  the  Lord  of  Palatie, 
Agen  another  hethen  in  Turkie  : 
And  evermore  he  hadde  a  sovereine  pris.' 
And  though  that  he  was  worthy  he  was  wise, 
And  of  his  port  as  meke  as  is  a  mayde. 
He  never  yet  no  vilanie  ne  sayde 
In  alle  his  lif,  unto  no  manere  wight. 
He  was  a  veray  parfit  gentil  knight. 
But  for  to  tellen  you  of  his  araie, 
His  hors  was  good,  but  he  ne  was  not  gaie. 
Of  fustian  he  wered  a  gipon,' 
All^  besmotred  ^  with  his  habergeon,* 
For  he  was  late  ycome  fro  his  viage. 
And  went^  for  to  don  his  pilgrimage. 

•  Praise.  J  Wore  a  short  cassock.  8  Smutted-  •  Coat  of  mail 

The  Prioress. 

Ther  was  also  a  Nonne,  a  Prioresse, 

That  of  hire  smiling  was  full  simple  and  coy; 

Hire  gretest  otlie  n'as  but  by  Seint  Eloy; 

And  she  was  cleped  *  Madame  Eglentine. 

Ful  wel  she  sange  the  service  devine, 

Entuned  in  hire  nose  ful  swetely; 

And  Frenche  she  spake  ful  fayre  and  fetisly,* 

After  the  scole  of  Stratford  att^  Bowe, 

For  Frenche  of  Paris  was  to  hire  unknowe. 

At  met^  was  she  wel  ytaughte  withalle; 

She  lette  no  morsel  from  her  lippes  fall, 

Ne  wette  hire  fingres  in  hire  sauce  depe. 

Wel  coude  she  carie  a  morsel,  and  wel  kepe 

Thatte  no  drope  ne  fell  upon  hire  brest. 

In  curtesie  was  sette  ful  moche  hire  lest.' 

Hire  over  lippe  wiped  she  so  clene. 

That  in  hire  cuppe  was  no  ferthing  sene  * 

Of  grese,  whan  she  dronken  hadde  hire  draught. 

Ful  semely  after  her  mete  she  raught-* 

And  sikerly  she  was  of  grete  disport, 

And  ful  plesant,  and  amiable  of  port, 

And  peined®  hire  to  contrefeten'  chere 

Of  court,  and  ben  estatelich  of  manure, 

And  to  ben  holden  digne^  of  reverence. 

But  for  to  speken  of  hire  consci-ence. 
She  was  so  charitable  and  so  pitoiis. 
She  wolde  wepe  if  that  she  saw  a  mous 

1  called  2  Neatly.         3  Her  pleasure.         4  Smallest  spot.         5  Rose.         *  Took  {iaiij& 

7  To  imitate.  ^  8  Worthy. 


32  CIIAUCEB.  Chap.  \L 

Caughte  in  a  trappe,  if  it  were  ded  or  bledde. 
Of  smal^  houndes  hadde  she,  that  she  fedde 
With  rested  flesh,  and  milk,  and  wastel  brede. 
But  sore  wept  she  if  on  of  hem  were  ded&., 
Or  if  men  smote  it  with  a  jerde^  smert,^* 
And  all  was  conscience  and  tendre  herte. 

Full  semelj  hire  wimple  jpinched  was; 
Hire  nose  tretis ;  '^  hire  ejen  grey  as  glas ; 
Hire  mouth  ful  smale,  and  therto  soft  and  red; 
But  sikerly  she  hadde  a  fajre  forehfed. 
It  was  almost  a  spanne  brode  I  trowe ; 
For  hardily  she  was  not  undergrowe.  " 

Ful  fetise  '^  was  hire  cloke,  as  I  was  ware. 
Of  smale  corall  aboute  hire  arm  she  bare 
A  pair  of  bedes,  gauded  all  with  grene ; 
And  theron  heng  a  broche  of  gold  ful  shene. 
On  whiche  was  first  ywriten  a  crouned  A, 
And  after,  Amor**vincit  omnia. 

9  Stick  W  Smartly,  adv.  H  Straight.  ^2  Of  low  statvae.  »  SfeA 

The  Friar. 

A  Frere  ther  was,  a  wanton  and  a  mery,     . 
A  Limitour,  a  ful  solempn^  man. 
In  all  the  ordres  foure  is  none  that  can  * 
So  muche  of  daliance  and  fayre  langage. 
He  hadde  ymade  ful  many  a  manage 
.  Of  yongfe  wimmin,  at  his  owen  cost. 
Until  his  ordre  he  was  a  noble  post. 
Ful  wel  beloved,  and  familier  was  he 
With  frankeleins  over  all  in  his  contrfee, 
And  eke  with  worthy  wimmen  of  the  toun  : 
For  he  had  power  of  confession, 
As  saide  himselfe,  nsore  than  a  curat, 
For  of  his  ordre  he  was  licenciat. 
Ful  swetely  herde  he  confession, 
And  plesant  was  his  absolution. 
He  was  an  esy  man  to  give  penance, 
Ther  as  he  wiste  to  han  ^  a  good  pitance : 
For  unto  a  poure  ^  ordre  for  to  give 
Is  sign^  that  a  man  is  well  yshrive.* 
For  if  he  gave,  he  dorste^  make  avant, 
He  wistfe  that  a  man  was  repentant. 
For  many  a  man  so  hard  is  of  his  herte, 
He  may  not  wepe  although  him  sor^  smerte. 
Therfore  in  stede  of  weping  and  praieres. 
Men  mote  give  silver  to  the  poure  freres. 

I  Knew.  'i  Have.  8  Fow.  *  Shriven.  &  Durst  make  a  boc«t 


h.  D.  1  28-1400.  CHAUCER.  33 

His  tippet  was  ay  farsed^  ful  of  knives, 
And  pinnes,  for  to  given  fayre  wives. 
And  certainly  he  hadde  a  mery  note. 
Wei  coude  he  singe  and  plaien  on  a  rote.' 
Of  yeddinges  ^  he  bare  utterly  the  pris.  ♦ 

His  nekke  was  white  as  the  flour  de  lis. 
Therto  he  strong  was  as  a  champioun, 
And  knew  wel  the  tavernes  in  every  toun, 
And  every  hosteler  and  gay  tapstere, 
Better  than  a  lazar  or  a  beggere. 
For  unto  swiche  a  worthy  man  as  he 
Accordeth  nought,  as  by  his  faculty, 
To  haven  ^  with  sike  lazars  acquaintance. 
It  is  not  honest,  it  may  not  avance, 
As  for  to  delen  with  no  swiche  pouraille,'® 
But  all  with  riche,  and  sellers  of  vitaille. 

And  over  all,  ther  as  profit  shuld  arise, 
Curteis  he  was,  and  lowly  of  servise. 
Ther  n'  as  no  man  no  wher  so  vertuous. 
He  was  the  beste  begger  in  all  his  hous  : 
And  gave  a  certain  ferme  ''  for  the  grant, 
Non  of  his  bretheren  came  in  his  haunt. 
For  though  a  widewe  hadde  but  a  shoo, 
(So  plesant  was  his  in principio^ 
Yet  wold  he  have  a  ferthing  or  he  went. 
His  pourchas  '*  was  wel  better  than  his  rent, 
And  rage  he  coude  as  it  hadde  ben  a  whelp, 
In  lovedayes,'^  ther  coude  he  mochel  help. 
For  ther  was  he  nat  like  a  cloisterere, 
With  thredbare  cope,  as  is  a  poure  scolere. 
But  he  was  like  a  maister  or  a  pope. 
Of  double  worsted  was  his  semicope,^* 
That  round  was  as  a  belle  out  of  the  presse. 
Somwhat  he  lisped  for  his  wantonnesse, 
To  make  his  English  swete  upon  his  tonge; 
And  in  his  harping,  whan  that  he  hadde  songe, 
His  eyen  twinkeled  in  his  bed  aright, 
As  don  the  sterres  in  a  frosty  night. 
This  worthy  limitour  was  cleped  Hub^rd. 

*  stuffed.      7  A  stringed  instrument.      8  Story  telling.      9  Have.      W  Poor  people.       11  F«n& 
U  Foichase.       13  Days  appointed  for  the  amicable  settlement  of  differences.       U  Half  cloak. 

The  Doctor  of  Physic. 

With  us  ther  was  a  Doctour  of  Phisike, 
In  all  this  world  ne  was  ther  non  him  like 
To  speke  of  phisike,  and  of  surgerie  ; 
3 


34  CHAUCER.  Chap.  II. 

For  he  was  grounded  in  astronomic. 
He  kept  his  patient  a  ful  gret  del 
In  houres  by  his  magike  natural. 
Wei  coude  he  fortunen  *  the  ascendent* 
Of  his  images  for  his  patient. 

He  knew  tlie  cause  of  every  maladie, 
Were  it  of  cold,  or  hote,  or  moist,  or  drie, 
And  wher  engendred,  and  of  what  humour, 
He  was  a  veray  parfite  practisour. 
The  cause  yknowe,  and  of  his  harm  the  rote,' 
Anon  he  gave  to  the  sikfe  man  his  bote.* 
Ful  redy  hadde  he  his  apothecaries 
To  send  him  dragges,^  and  his  lettuaries,* 
For  eche  of  hem  made  other  for  to  winne; 
Hir  frendship  n'as  not  nevve  to  beginne. 
Wei  knew  he  the  old  Esculapius, 
And  Dioscorides,  and  eke  Rufiis; 
Old  Hippocras,  Hali,  and  Gallien, 
Serapion,  Rasis,  and  Avicen  ; 
Averrois,  Damascene,  and  Constantin; 
Bernard,  and  Gatisden,  and  Gilbertin. 
Of  his  diete  mesurable  was  he, 
For  it  was  of  no  superfluitee, 
But  of  gret  nourishing,  and  digestible.  ^ 

His  studie  was  but  litel  on  the  Bible. 
In  sanguin '^  and  in  perse**  he  clad  was  alle 
Lined  with  taffata,  and  with  sendalle.^ 
And  yet  he  was  but  esy  of  dispence  :  ^^ 
He  kepte  that  he  wan  "  in  the  pestilence. 
For  golde  in  phisike  is  a  cordial ; 
Therfore  he  loved  gold  in  special. 

1  Make  fortune.         2  The  ascendant.         3  Root.         4  Remedy.         6  Drugs.         6  Electuaries. 
f  Blood-red  color.       8  Sky-colored,  or  bluish  grey.       9  Thin  silk.      10  Expense.       XI  Gained,  goi 

*  The  Miller. 

The  Miller  was  a  stout  carl  for  the  nones, 

Ful  bigge  he  was  of  braun,  and  eke  of  bones; 

That  proved  wel,  for  over  all  ther  he  came, 

At  wrastling  he  wold  here  away  the  ram.' 

He  was  short  shuldered  brode,  a  thikk^  gnarre,' 

Ther  n'as  no  dore,  that  he  n'olde  heve  of  baiTC, 

Or  breke  it  at  a  renning  with  his  hede. 

His  herd  as  any  sowe  or  fox  was  rede, 

And  therto  brode,  as  though  it  were  a  spade. 

Upon  the  cop  "*  right  of  his  nose  he  hade 

I  The  prize.  2  A  hard  knot  in  a  tree.  3  A  running.  *  Top. 


A.  D.  1396. 


BARBOUR. 


35 


A  wert,  and  theron  stode  a  tufte  of  heres, 

Rede  as  the  bristles  of  a  sowes  eres. 

His  nose-thirles  ^  blacke  were  and  wide. 

A  swerd  and  bokeler  bare  he  by  his  side. 

His  mouth  as  wide  was  as  a  forneis. 

He  was  a  jangler,®  and  a  goliardeis,' 

And  that  was  most  of  sinne,  and  harlotries. 

Wei  coude  he  stelen  corne,  and  tollen  thries. 

And  yet  he  had  a  thomb*  of  gold  parde.' 

A  white  cote  and  a  blew  hode  wered  he. 

A  baggepipe  wel  coude  he  blowe  and  soune, 

And  therwithall  he  brought  us  out  of  toune.       ,^ 

6  Nostrils.  6  Prater.  7  Buffoon.  8  9  He  was  as  honest  as  other  millere,  though  he  )uA^ 

according  to  tliC  proverb,  like  every  miller,  a  thumb  of  gold. 


14:»  John  Barbour,  d.  A.  D.  1396.     (See  Manual,  p.  51.) 


Apostrophe  to  Freedom. 


[Old  Orthography.] 
A!  fredome  is  a  nobill  thing! 
Fredome  mayse  man  to  haiif  lik- 
ing! 
Fredome  all  solace  to  man  giffis  : 
He  levys  at  ese  that  frely  levys  ! 
A  noble  hart  may  haiff  nane  ese, 
Na  ellys  nocht  that  may  him  plese, 

Gyff  fredome  failythe  :  for  fre  lik- 
ing 
Is  yearnyt  our  all  othir  thing. 
Na  he,  that  ay  base  levyt  fre, 
May  nocht  knaw  weill  the  prop- 

yrte, 
The  angyr,  na  the  wretchyt  dome, 
That  is  cowplyt  to  foule  thyrldome. 
Bot  gy^  he  had  assayit  it. 
Then  all  perquer  he  suld  it  wyt ; 

And   suld   think   fredome  mar   to 

pryse 
Than  all  the  gold  in  warld  that  is. 


[Modern  Orthography.] 
Ah  !  Freedom  is  a  noble  thing ! 
Freedom  makes  men  to  have  lik- 


ing 


1 1 


Freedom  all  solace  to  man  gives  : 
He  lives  at  ease  that  freely  lives! 
A  noble  heart  may  have  none  ease, 
Na    else    nought    that    may    him 

please, 
If  freedom  faileth 


for  free  liking 


Is  yearned*  oure^  all  other  thing. 
Na  he,  that  aye  has  lived  free, 
May  not  know  well  the  property,* 

The  anger,  na  the  wretched  doom. 
That  it  coupled  to  foul  thyrldom.  * 
But  if  he  had  assayed  it. 
Then    all   perquer^   he    should    it 

wit;  ^ 
And  should  think  freedom  more  to 

prize 
Than  all  the  gold  in  world  that  is. 


1  Pleasure.       8  Desired. 


3  Over,  above. 
9  Exactly. 


4  Peculiar  state  or  condition. 
1  Know. 


6  Thraldoru 


36  CHAUCER.  Chap.  IL 

IS,   Chaucer  {Prose).     Tale  of  Meliboeus  (from  the 

Parson's  Tale). 

Counsel  of  Prudence. 

Whan  dame  Prudence,  ful  debonairly  and  with  gret  pacience,  had 
herd  all  that  hire  husbonde  liked  for  to  say,  than  axed  she  of  him 
licence  for  to  speke,  and  sayde  in  this  wise.  My  lord,  (quod  she)  as 
to  your  first  reson,  it  may  lightly  ben  ansAverd  :  for  I  say  that  it  is  no 
folie  to  chaunge  conseil  whan  the  thing  is  chaunged,  or  elles  whan  the 
thing  semeth  otherwise  than  it  semed  afore.  And  moreover  I  say, 
though  that  ye  have  sworne  and  behight '  to  performe  your  emprise, 
and  nevertheles  ye  weive  to  performe  thilke  same  emprise  by  just 
cause,  men  shuld  not  say  therfore  ye  were  a  Iyer,  ne  forsworn  :  for  the 
book  sayth,  that  the  wise  man  maketh  no  lesing,^  when  he  turneth  his 
corage^  for  the  better.  And  al  be  it  that  your  emprise  be  established 
and  ordeined  by  gret  multitude  of  folk,  yet  thar"*  you  not  accomplish 
thilke  ordinance  but  ^  you  liketh  :  for  the  trouthe  of  thinges,  and  the 
profit,  ben  rather  founden  in  fewe  folk  that  ben  wise  and  ful  of  reson, 
than  by  gret  multitude  of  folk,  ther^  every  man  cryeth  and  clattereth 
what  hiin  liketh:  sothly'  swiche^  multitude  is  not  honest.  As  to  the 
second  reson,  wheras  ye  say,  that  alle  women  ben  wicke :  save  your 
grace,  certes  ye  despise  alle  women  in  this  wise,  and  he  that  all  de- 
spiseth,  as  saith  the  book,  all  displeseth.  And  Senek  saith,  that  who 
so  wol  have  sapience,  shal  no  man  dispreise,  but  he  shal  gladly  teche 
the  science  that  he  can,  without  presumption  or  pride  :  and  swiche 
thinges  as  he  nought  can,  he  shal  not  ben  ashamed  to  lere^  hem,  and 
to  enquere  of  lesse  folke  than  himself. 

1  Promised.  2  Lie.  3  Ileart.  4  It  behooveth.  5  Unless.       6  Where. 

7  Truly.  8  Such.  9  Learn  them. 


±Gm  Sir  John  de  Mandeville,  1300-1371.    (Manual,  p.  54.) 

And  therfore  I  schalle  telle  zou,  what  the  Soudan  tolde  me  upon  a 
day,  in  his  Chambre.  He  leet  voyden  out  of  his  Chambre  alle  maner 
pf  men,  Lordes  and  othero  :  for  he  wolde  speke  with  me  in  Conseille. 
And  there  he  askede  me,  how  the  Cristene  men  governed  hem  in  oure 
Contree.  And  I  seyde  him,  Righte  wel :  thonked  be  God.  And  he 
seyde  me,  Treulyche,  nay:  for  zee  Cristene  men  ne  recthen  righte 
noghte  how  untrewly  to  serve  God.  Ze  scholde  zeven  ensample 
to  the  lewed  peple,  for  to  do  wel;  and  zee  zeven  hem  ensample  to 
don  evylle.  For  the  Comownes,  upon  festyfulle  dayes,  whan  thei 
scholden  gon  to  Chirche  to  serve  God,  than  gon  thei  to  Tavernes, 


^.  D.  1300-1371.  MANDEVILLE.  37 

ftnd  ben  there  in  glotony,  alle  the  day  and  alle   nyg     =;,  and  eten  and 
drynken,  as  Bestes  that  have  no  resoun,  and  wite  nc.    whan  thei  have 
y  now.    And  also  the  Cristene  men  enforcen  hem,  in  .ille  maneres  that 
thei  mowen,  for  to  fighte,  and  for  to  desceyven  that  on  that  other. 
And  there  with   alle  thei  ben  so  proude,  that  thei  knowen  not  how 
to  ben  clothed ;  now  long,   now  schort,  now  streyt,  now  large,  now 
swerded,  now  daggered,  and  in  all  manere  gyses.     Thei  scholden  ben 
symple,  meke  and  trewe,  and  fulle  of  Almes  dede,  as  Jhesu  was,  in 
whom  thei  trowe  :  but  thei  ben  alle  the  contrarie,  and  evere  enclyned 
to  the  Evylle,  and  to  don  evylle.    And  thei  ben  so  coveytous,  that  for  a 
lytylle  Sylver,  thei  sellen  here  Doughtres,  here  Sustres  and  here  owne 
Wyfes,  to  putten  hem  to  Leccherie.     And  on  with  drawethe  the  Wif 
of  another:  and  non  of  hem  holdethe  Feythe  to  another:    but  thei 
defoulen  here  Lawe,  that  Jhesu  Crist  betook  hym  to  kepe,  for  here  Sal- 
vacioun.     And  thus  for  here  Sjmnes,  han  thei  lost  alle  this  Lond„that 
wee  holden.     For,  for  hire  Synnes  here  God  hathe  taken  hem  in  to 
oure  Hondes,    noghte   only  be    Strengthe   of  our   self,    but   for  here 
Synnes.     For  wee  knowen  wel  in  verry  sothe,  that  whan  zee  serve 
God,  God  wil  helpe  zou  :  and  whan  he  is  with  zou,   no  man  may  be 
azenst  you.     And  that  knowe  we  wel,  be  oure  Prophecyes,  that  Cris- 
tene men  schulle  wynnen  azen  this  Lond  out  of  oure  Hondes,  whan 
thei  serven  God  more  devoutly.     But  als  longe  als  thei  ben  of  foule 
and  of  unclene  Lyvnge,  (as  thei  ben  now)  wee  have  no  drede  of  hem,  in 
no  kynde  :  for  here  God  wil  not  helpen  hem  in  no  wise.     And  than  T 
asked  him,  how  he  knew  the  State  of  Cristene  men.    And  he  answerde 
me,  that  he  knew  alle  the  state  of  the  Comounes  also,  be  his  Messan- 
geres,   that  he  sente  to  alle  Londes,  in  manere   as  thei  weren  Mar- 
chauntes  of  precyous  Stones,  of  Clothes  of  Gold  and  of  othere  thinges ; 
for  to  knowen  the  manere  of  every  Contree  amonges  Cristene  men. 
And  than  he  leet  clepe  in  alle  the  Lordes,  that  he  made  voyden  first 
out  of  his  Chambre ;  and  there  he  schewed   me  4,   that  weren  grete 
Lordes  in  the  Contree,  that  tolden  me  of  my  Contree,  and  of  many 
othere  Cristene  Contrees,  als  wel  as  thei  had  ben  of  the  same  Contree  ; 
and  thei  spak  Frensche  righte  wel ;  and  the  Sowdan  also,  where  of  I 
had  gret  Marvaylle.     Alias !  that  it  is  gret  sclaundre  to  oure  Feythe 
and  to  oure  Lawe,  whan  folk  that  ben  with  outen  Lawe,  schulle  re- 
preven  us  and  undernemen  us  of  oure  Synnes.    And  thei  that  scholden 
ben  converted  to  Crist  and  to  the  Lawe  of  Jhesu,  be  oure  gode  En- 
samples  and  be  oure  acceptable  Lif  to  God,  and  so  converted  to  the 
Lawe  of  Jhesu  Crist,  ben  thorghe  oure  Wykkednesse  and  evylle  lyv- 
yngp,  fer  fro    us    and  Straungeres   fro    the    holy  and  verry  Beleeve, 
schulle    thus    appelen    us   and  holden    us  for  wykkede  Lyveres   and 
cursed.     And  treulj''  thei  sey  sothe.     For  the  Sarazines  ben  gode  and 
feythfulle.     For  thei  kepen  entierly  the  Comaundement  of  the   Holy 
Book  Alkaron,  that  God  sente  hem  be  his  Messager  Machomet;  to  the 
whiche,  as  thei  seyne,  seynt  Gabrielle  the  Aungel  often  tyme  tolde 
the  wille  of  God. 


38  WICLIFFE.  Chap.  1L 


17 •  WiCLiFFE,  A.  D.  1324-1384.     (Manual,  p.  58.) 

Matthew's  Gospel,  Chap.  VIII. 

Forsothe  when  Jhesus  hadde  comen  doun  fro  the  hil,  many  cum- 
panyes  folewiden  hjm.  And  loo !  a  leprouse  man  cummjnge  wor« 
shipide  hjm,  sayinge;  Lord,  gif  thou  wolt,  thou  maist  make  me  clene. 
And  Jhesus  holdynge  forthe  the  hond,  touchide  hym  sayinge,  I  wole ; 
be  thou  maad  clene.  And  anoon  the  lepre  of  hym  was  clensid.  And 
Jhesus  saith  to  hym ;  See,  say  thou  to  no  man ;  but  go,  shewe  thee  to 
prestis,  and  ofFre  that  gifte  that  Moyses  comaundide,  into  witnessing 
to  hem.  Sothely  when  he  hadde  entride  in  to  Capharnaum,  centurio 
neigide  to  hym  preyinge  hym,  And  said,  Lord,  my  child  lyeth  in  the 
hous  sike  on  the  palsie,  and  is  yuel  tourmentid.  And  Jhesus  saith  to 
hym,  I  shal  cume,  and  shal  hele  hym.  And  centurio  answerynge 
saith  to  hym.  Lord,  I  am  not  worthi,  that  thou  entre  vndir  my  roof; 
but  oonly  say  bi  word,  and  my  child  shall  be  helid.  For  whi  and  I 
am  a  man  ordeynd  vnder  power,  hauynge  vndir  me  knigtis ;  and  I 
say  to  this.  Go,  and  he  goth ;  and  to  an  other,  Come  thou,  and  he 
cometh;  and  to  my  seruaunt,  D®  thou  this  thing,  and  he  doth. 
Sothely  Jhesus,  heerj^nge  these  thingis,  wondride,  and  saide  to  men 
suynge  hym :  Trewly  I  saye  to  you  I  fond  nat  so  grete  feith  in  Yrael. 
Sothely  Y  say  to  you,  that  manye  shulen  come  fro  the  est  and  west, 
and  shulen  rest  with  Abraham  and  Ysaac  and  Jacob  in  the  kyngdam 
of  heuenes;  forsothe  the  sonys  of  the  rewme  shulen  be  cast  out  into 
vttremest  derknessis ;  there  shal  be  weepj'nge,  and  beetynge  togidre 
of  teeth.  And  Jhesus  saide  ^^  centurio,  Go ;  and  as  thou  hast  bileeued 
be  it  don  to  thee.  And  the  child  was  helid  fro  that  houre.  And  when 
Jhesus  hadde  comen  in  to  thv  hous  of  Symond  Petre,  he  say  his  wyues 
moder  Hggynge,  and  shakun  with  feueris.  And  he  touchide  hir  hond, 
and  the  feuer  lefte  hir :  and  she  roose,  and  seruyde  hem.  Sothely 
whan  the  euenyng  was  maad,  thei  brougte  to  hym  many  hauynge 
deuelys  :  and  he  castide  out  spiritis  hy  word,  and  helide  alle  hauynge 
yuel;  that  it  shulde  be  fulfiUid,  that  thing  that  was  said  by  Ysaie,  the 
prophete,  sayinge,  He  toke  oure  infirmytees,  and  here  oure  sykenessis. 
Sothely  Jhesus  seeynge  many  cumpanyes  about  hym,  bad  his  disci'piis 
go  ouer  the  water.  And  00  scribe,  or  a  man  of  lawe,  commynge  to, 
saide  to  hym,  Maistre,  I  shal  sue  thee  whidir  euer  thou  shalt  go.  And 
Jhesus  said  to  hym,  Foxis  ban  dichis,  or  borowis,  and  briddis  of  the 
eir //rt«  nestis;  but  mannes  sone  hath  nat  wher  he  reste  his  heued. 
Sotheli  an  other  of  his  disciplis  saide  to  hym,  Lord,  suffre  me  go  first 
and  birye  my  fadir.  Forsothe  Jhesus  saide  to  hym,  Sue  thcu  me,  and 
late  dede  men  birye  her  dead  men.  And  Jhesu  steyinge  vp  in  to  a 
litel  ship,  his  disciplis  sueden  him.  And  loo !  a  grete  steryng  was 
made  in  the  see,  so  that  the  litil  ship  was  hilid  with  wawis;  but  he 
siepte.     And  his  disciplis  camen   nig  to  hym,  and  raysiden  hym,  say- 


A.  D.  1324-1384.  WICLIFFE.  39 

inge,  Lord,  saue  vs  :  we  perishen.  And  Jhesus  seith  to  hem,  What 
ben  jee  of  litil  feith  iigast?  Thanne  he  rjsjnge  comaundide  to  the 
wjndis  and  the  see,  and  a  grete  pesiblenesse  is  maad.  Forsothe  men 
wondreden,  sayinge :  What  manere  man  is  he  this,  for  the  wyndis  and 
the  see  obeishen  to  hym.  And  whan  Jhesus  hadde  comen  ouer  the 
water  in  to  the  cuntre  of  men  of  Genazereth  twey  men  hauynge  deuelis 
runnen  to  hym,  goynge  out  fro  birielis,  ful  feerse,  or  ivickid,  so  that  no 
man  migte  passe  by  that  wey.  And  loo!  thei  crieden,  sayinge,  What 
to  vs  and  to  thee,  Jhesu  tiie  sone  of  God?  hast  thou  comen  hidir  before 
the  tyme  for  to  tourmente  vs  ?  Sothely  a  floe,  or  droue,  of  many  hoggis 
lesewynge  was  nat  fer  from  hem.  But  the  deuelis  preyeden  him,  sey- 
inge,  gif  thou  castist  out  vs  hennes,  sende  vs  in  to  the  droue  of  hoggis. 
And  he  saith  to  hem,  Go  yee.  And  thei  goynge  out  wente  in  to  the 
hoggis;  and  loo!  in  a  greet  hire  al  the  droue  wente  heedlynge  in  to 
the  see,  and  thei  ben  dead  in  watris.  Forsothe  the  hirdes  fledden 
awey,  and  cummynge  in  to  the  citee,  tolden  alle  these  thingis ;  and  of 
hem  that  hadden  the  fendis.  And  loo !  al  the  citee  wente  ageinis 
Jhesu,  metynge  hym ;  and  hym  seen,  thei  preiden  kym^  that  he  shulde 
pass  fro  her  coostis. 


40  JAMES  L  Chap.  III. 


CHAPTER  III. 

FROM  THE  DEATH    OF  CHAUCER  TO    THE  AGE  OF  ELIZABETH 

A.  D.  1400-1558. 


A.  — SCOTTISH    POETS. 
18,  James  I.     1 394-1 437.     (Manual,  p.  60.) 

From  the  King's  Quair  (Quire  or  Book). 

On  his  Beloved. 

The  longfe  daj^s  and  the  nightes  eke, 
I  would  bewail  my  fortune  in  this  wise, 
For  which,  again  '  distress  comfort  to  seek 
My  custom  was,  on  mornes,  for  to  rise 
Early  as  day  :  O  happy  exercise ! 
By  thee  come  I  to  joy  out  of  torment; 
But  now  to  purpose  of  my  first  intent. 

Bewailing  in  my  chamber,  thus  alone, 
Despaired  of  all  joy  and  remedy, 
For-tired  of  my  thought,  and  woe  begone; 
And  to  the  window  gan  I  walk  in  hye,^ 
To  see  the  world  and  folk  that  went  forby; 
As  for  the  time  (though  I  of  mirthis  food 
Might  have  no  more)  to  look  it  did  me  good. 

Now  was  there  made  fast  by  the  touris  wall 

A  garden  fair;  and  in  the  corners  set 

An  herbere^  green;  with  wandis  long  and  small 

Railed  about  and  so  with  treeis  set 

Was  all  the  place,  and  hawthorn  hedges  knet, 

That  life  was  none  (a)  walking  there  forby 

That  might  within  scarce  any  wight  espy. 


Of  her  array  the  form  gif*  I  shall  write. 
Toward  her  golden  hair,  and  rich  attire, 

1  Against.  2  Haste.  8  Herbary,  or  garden  of  simplea. 


A.  D.  1465-1520.  DUNBAB.  41 

In  fret  wise  couched  with  pearlis  white, 
And  greats  balas*  lemyng®  as  the  fire; 
With  many  an  emerant  and  faire  sapphire, 
And  on  her  head  a  chaplet  fresh  of  hue, 
Of  pUimys  parted  red  and  white  and  blue. 

About  her  neck,  white  as  the  fyr  amaille,' 
A  goodly  chain  of  small  orfevyrie,^ 
Whereby  there  hang  a  ruby  without  fail 
Like  to  a  heart  yshapen  verily, 
That  as  a  spark  of  lowe  ^  so  wantonly 
Seemed  burnyng  upon  her  whit6  throat; 
Now  gif  there  was  good  parly  God  it  wote. 

And  for  to  walk  that  freshfe  maye's  morrow, 

An  hogk  she  had  upon  her  tissue  white, 

That  goodlier  had  not  been  seen  toforrow,*" 

As  I  suppose,  and  girt  she  was  a  lyte  " 

Thus  halfling^^  loose  for  haste;  to  such  delight 

It  was  to  see  her  youth  in  goodlihead. 

That  for  rudeness  to  speak  thereof  I  dread. 

In  her  was  youth,  beauty  with  humble  port, 
Bounty,  richess,  and  womanly  feature: 
(God  better  wote  than  my  pen  can  report) 
Wisdom  largess,  estate  and  cunning  sure. 
In  a  word  in  deed,  in  shape  and  countenance, 
That  nature  might  no  more  her  childe  avance. 

6  Rubies.        6  Burning.        7  Mr.  Ellia  conjectares  that  this  is  an  error,  for/air  tmail.  i.  e.  engmeL 
8  Goldsmith's  work.  a  Fire.  10  Heretofore.  11  A  little.  12  Half. 


10»  William  Dunbar,  about  1465-1520.     (Manual,  p.  60.) 

From  the  Dance  of  the  Seven  Deadly  Sins. 
Ire,  Pride,  and  Envy. 

And  first  of  all  in  dance  was  Pryd, 
With  hair  wyl'd  bak,  bonet  on  side,* 

Like  to  mak  vaistie  wainis  ;  ^ 
And  round  about  him,  as  a  quheill,' 
Hang  all  in  rumpilis  to  the  heill,* 

His  kethat  for  the  nanis.^ 
Mony  proud  trompour  with  him  trippit,® 
Throw  skaldan  fyre  ay  as  they  skippit,^ 

They  girnd  with  hyddous  granis.** 

1  With  hair  combed  back  (and)  bonnet  to  one  side.  2  Likely  to  make  wasteful  trants.  8  Like  a 
wheel.  4  Hung  all  in  rumples  to  the  lieel.  5  His  cassock  for  the  nonce.  6  Many  a  prood  imposto} 
with  hino  tripped.       T  Through  scalding  fire  as  they  skipped.       8  They  grinned  with  hideous  gro*na. 


42  LYNDSA7.  Chai'.  llL 

Then  Ire  cam  in  with  sturt  and  strife," 
His  hand  was  ay  upon  his  knjfe, 

He  brandeist  lyk  a  heir; 
Bostaris,  braggaris,  and  burganeris/** 
After  him  passit  into  pairis," 

All  bodin  in  fair  of  weir.  ^^ 
In  jakkis  stryppis  and  bonnettis  of  steil,^^ 
Thair  leggis  were  chenyiet  to  the  heill,^* 

Frawart  was  thair  affair,^' 
Sum  upon  uder  with  brands  beft,^" 
Some  jaggit  uthers  to  the  heft  ^' 

With  knyves  that  scherp  coud  scheir.^' 

Next  in  the  dance  followit  Invy/® 
Fild  full  of  feid  and  fellony,^" 

Hid  malice  and  dispyte, 
For  privy  haterit  that  tratour  trymlet;  '* 
Him  followit  mony  freik  dissymlit,^^ 

With  fenyiet  wordis  quhyte.^^ 
And  flattereris  into  menis  faces, ^^ 
And  backbyteris  of  sundry  races  ^* 

To  ley  that  had  delyte,2« 
With  rownaris  of  false  lesingis ;  ^' 
Allace,  that  courtis  of  noble  kingis  ^' 

Of  thame  can  nevir  be  quyte. 


29 


9  Then  Ire  came  with  trouble  and  sti-ife.  10  Boasters,  braggarts,  and  bullies,  H  After  him  passed 
in  pairs.  12  All  arrayed  in  feature  of  war.  13  In  coats  of  armor  and  bonnets  of  steel.  14  Their 
legs  were  chained  to  the  heel.  (Probably  it  means  covered  with  iron  net-work.)  15  Froward  was 
their  aspect.  16  Some  strcck  upon  others  with  brands.  17  Some  stuck  others  to  the  hilt.  18  With 
knives  tha.  sharply  could  mangle.  19  Followed  Envy.  »)  Filled  full  of  quarrel  and  felony.  21  For 
privy  hatred  that  traitor  trembled.  22  Him  followed  many  a  dissembling  renegado.  23  With  feigned 
words  fair  or  white.  24  And  flatterers  to  men's  faces.  25  And  backbiters  of  sundry  races.  26  To 
lie  that  had  delight.  27  With  spreaders  of  false  lies.  28  Alas  that  courts  of  noble  kings.  29  Qf  them 
can  never  be  rid. 


20,  Sir  David  Lyndsay.     1490-1557.     (Manual,  p.  69.) 

Meldrum's  Duel  with  the  English  Champion  Talbart. 

Then  clariouns  and  trumpets  blew, 
And  weiriours  *  many  hither  drew; 
On  eviry  side  come  ^  mony  man 
To  behald  wha  the  battel  wan. 
The  field  was  in  the  meadow  green, 
Quhare  everie  man  micht  weil  be  seen : 
The  heraldis  put  tham  sa  in  order, 
That  na  man  past  within  the  border, 

1  Warriors.  S  Came. 


A.  D.  1490-1557.  LYNDSAT.  43 

Nor  preissit^  to  com  within  the  green, 

Bot  heraldis  and  the  campiouns  keen; 

The  order  and  the  circumstance 

Wer  lang  to  put  in  remembrance. 

Quhen  thir  twa  nobill  men  of  weir 

Wer  Weill  accounterit  in  their  geir, 

And  in  thair  handis  strong  burdounis,* 

Than  trumpettis  blew  and  clariounis, 

And  heraldis  cryit  hie  on  hicht, 

Now  let  thame  go  —  God  shaw^  the  richt. 

Than  trumpettis  blew  triumphantly, 

And  thay  twa  campiouns  eagerlie, 

They  spurrit  their  hors  with  spier  on  breist, 

Pertly  to  prief®  their  pith  they  preist.' 

That  round  rink-room  "  was  at  utterance, 

Bot  Talbart's  hors  with  ane  mischance 

He  outterit,^  and  to  run  was  laith ;  '* 

Quharof  Tulbart  was  wonder  wraith.^* 

The  Squj^er  furth  his  rink  '^  he  ran, 

Commendit  weill  with  every  man. 

And  him  discharget  of  his  speir 

Honestlie,  like  ane  man  of  weir. 

The  trenchour  '^  of  the  Squyreis  speir 

Stak  still  into  Sir  Talbart's  geir; 

Than  everie  man  into  that  steid  ^* 

Did  all  beleve  that  he  was  dede. 

The  Squyer  lap  richt  haistilHe 

From  his  coursour  '^  deliverlie, 

And  to  Sir  Talbart  made  support, 

And  humillie  ^^  did  him  comfort. 

When  Talbart  saw  into  his  schield 

Ane  otter  in  ane  silver  field, 

This  race,  said  he,  I  sair  may  rew, 

For  I  see  weill  my  dreame  was  true ; 

Methocht  yon  otter  gart  ^^  me  bleid, 

And  buir  ^^  me  backwart  from  my  sted; 

But  heir  I  vow  to  God  soverane. 

That  I  sail  never  just  ^^  agane. 

And  sweitlie  to  the  Squiyre  said, 

Thou  knawis^*^  the  cunning^'  that  we  made, 

Quhilk^^  of  us  twa  suld  tyne*^^  the  field, 

He  suld  baith  hors  and  armour  yield 

Till  him  ^^  that  wan,  quhairfore  I  will 

My  hors  and  harness  geve  the  till. 

8  Pressed.         *  Spears.  6  Shew.  6  Prove.  1  Tried.         8  Course-rooiii.        9  Swerved  from 

Ihe  course.        10  Loath.  11  Wroth.  12  Course.  13  Head  of  the  spear.  14  In  that  situatioii, 

ir>  Courser.       16  Humbly.        17  Made.       19  Bore.       19  Joust.       20  Thcu  knowest  21  Agreement  ol 

understanding.  22  Which.  2^  Lose.  24  To  him. 


44  SEE L  TON,  Chap.  III. 

Then  said  the  Squyer,  courteouslie, 
Brother,  I  thank  you  hartfuUie ; 
Of  you,  forsooth,  nothing  I  crave, 
For  I  have  gotten  that  I  would  have. 


B.  — ENGLISH    POETS. 
21*  John  Skelton,  d.  1529.     (Manual,  p.  65.) 

Attack  upon  Wolsey. 

But  this  mad  Amalek 

Like  to  a  Mamelek,' 

He  regardeth  lords 

No  more  than  potshords ; 

He  is  in  such  elation 

Of  his  exaltation, 

And  the  supportation 

Of  our  sovereign  lord. 

That,  God  to  record,^ 

He  ruleth  all  at  v\rill, 

Without  reason  or  skill ;  ' 

Howbeit  the  primordial 

Of  his  wretched  original. 

And  his  base  progeny,^ 

And  his  greasy  genealogy. 

He  came  of  the  sank  royal  * 

That  was  cast  out  of  a  butcher's  stall. 


He  would  dry  up  the  streams 
Of  nine  kings'  reams, ^ 
All  rivers  and  wells, 
All  water  that  swells; 
For  with  us  he  so  mells' 
That  within  England  dwells, 
I  wold  he  were  somewhere  else; 
For  else  by  and  by 
He  will  drink  us  so  dry, 
And  suck  us  so  nigh. 
That  men  shall  scantly 
Have  penny  or  halfpenny. 
God  save  his  noble  grave, 
And  grant  him  a  place 
Endless  to  dwell 
With  the  devil  of  hell  I 


1  Mamaluke.  2  Witness.  3  Regard  to  propriety.  4  Frogenitortlilp  t 

6  Sanguo  royal,  blood  royal.  6  Realms.  T  Meddlec 


A.  D.  1503-1541.  WYATT.  45 

For,  an  he  were  there, 
We  need  never  fear 
Of  the  feindes  blake; 
For  I  undertake 
He  wold  so  brag  and  crake, 
That  he  wold  than  make 
The  devils  to  quake,  c 

^  To  shudder  and  to  shake, 

Like  a  fire-drake,^ 
And  with  a  coal  rake 
'  Bruise  them  on  a  brake,* 

And  bind  them  to  a  stake, 
And  set  hell  on  fire 
At  his  own  desire. 
He  is  such  a  grim  sire. 
And  such  a  potestolate,''* 
And  such  a  potestate, 
That  he  wold  brake  the  brains 
Of  Lucifer  in  his  chains. 
And  rule  them  each  one 
In  Lucifer's  trone.^* 

•  Fiery  dragon.  >  Engine  of  torture.  W  "  Equivalent,  I  suppose,  to  legatee."—  Dytt. 

U  Throne. 


22.  Sir  Thomas  Wyatt.     i  503-1 541.     (JVxanua  ,  p.  66.) 

To  HIS  Beloved. 

Forget  not  yet  the  tried  intent 
Of  such  a  truth  as  I  have  meant; 
My  great  travail  so  gladly  spent, 
Forget  not  yet ! 

Forget  not  j'et  when  first  began 
The  weary  life,  ye  know  since  whan, 
The  suit,  the  service,  none  tell  can ; 
Forget  not  yet ! 

Forget  not  yet  the  great  assays, 
The  cruel  wrong,  the  scornful  ways, 
The  painful  patience  in  delays, 
Forget  not  yet ! 

Forget  not !  —  Oh  !  forget  not  this, 
How  long  ago  hath  been,  and  is 
The  mind  that  never  meant  amiss. 
Forget  not  yet ! 


46  SURREY,  Chap.  IlL 

Forget  not  then  thine  own  approved, 
The  which  so  long  hath  thee  so  lov'd, 
"Whose  steadfast  faith  jet  never  mov'd, 
Forget  not  this ! 


23.  Earl  of  Surrey.     15 17-1547.     (Manual,  p.  66.) 

A   Prisoner   in   Windsor   Castle,    he   Reflects    on    Past 

Happiness. 

So  cruel  prison  how  could  betide,  alas ! 

As  proud  Windsor?    Where  I  in  lust  and  joy, 

With  a  king's  son,  my  childish  years  did  pass, 

In  greater  feast  than  Priam's  sons  of  Troy ;  ' 

Where  each  sweet  place  returns  a  taste  full  sour. 

The  large  green  courts,  where  we  were  wont  to  hove, 

With  eyes  upcast  unto  the  maiden's  tower, 

And  easy  sighs,  such  as  folk  draw  in  love. 

The  stately  seats,  the  ladies  bright  of  hue, 

The  dances  short,  long  tales  of  great  delight; 

With  words  and  looks  that  tigers  could  but  rue, 

When  each  of  us  did  plead  the  other's  right. 

The  palm  play,^  where  desported^  for  the  game, 

With  dazed  eyes  oft  we,  by  gleams  of  love. 

Have  miss'd  the  ball,  and  got  sight  of  our  dame. 

To  bait  her  ej^es,  which  kept  the  leads  above. 

The  gravell'd  ground,  with  sleeves  tied  on  the  helm, 

On  foaming  horse  with  swords  and  friendly  hearts; 

With  cheer  as  though  one  should  another  whelm, 

Where  we  have  fought,  and  chased  oft  with  darts. 

With  silver  drops  the  meads  yet  spread  for  ruth ; 

In  active  games  of  nimbleness  and  strength. 

Where  we  did  strain,  trained  Avith  swarms  of  youth, 

Our  tender  limbs  that  yet  shot  up  in  length. 

The  secret  groves,  which  oft  we  made  resound 

Of  pleasant  plaint,  and  of  our  ladies  praise; 

Recording  soft  what  grace  each  one  had  found, 

What  hope  of  speed,  what  dread  of  long  delays. 

The  wild  forest,  the  clothed  holts  with  green ; 

With  reins  avail'd,^  and  swift  ybreathed  horse. 

With  cry  of  hounds,  and  merry  blasts  between. 

Where  we  did  chase  the  fearful  hart  of  force. 

The  void  walls  eke  that  harbour'd  us  each  night: 

Wherewith,  alas  I  revive  within  my  breast 

The  sweet  accord,  such  sleeps  as  yet  delight; 

The  pleasant  dreams,  the  quiet  bed  of  rest; 

1  Teaiu»-court  >  Stripped.  >  SliOtdUMd. 


A.  D.  1517-1547.  VAUX.  47 

The  secret  thoughts,  imparted  with  s'ach  trust; 
The  wanton  talk,  the  divers  change  of  play ; 
The  friendship  sworn,  each  promise  kept  so  just, 
Wherewith  we  past  the  winter  nights  away. 
And  with  this  thought  the  blood  forsakes  the  face; 
The  tears  berain  my  cheeks  of  deadly  hue  : 
The  which,  as  soon  as  sobbing  sighs,  alas  I 
Upsupped  have,  thus  I  my  plaint  renew : 

0  place  of  bliss  !  renewer  of  my  woes  ! 
Give  me  account,  where  is  my  noble  fere?* 
Whom  in  thy  walls  thou  didst  each  night  enclose ; 
To  other  lief:  ^  but  unto  me  most  dear. 

Echo,  alas  I  that  doth  my  sorrow  rue, 
Returns  thereto  a  hollow  sound  of  plaint. 
Thus  I  alone,  where  all  my  freedom  grew, 
In  prison  pine,  with  bondage  and  restraint: 
And  with  remembrance  of  the  greater  grief, 
To  banish  the  less,  I  find  my  chief  relief. 

4  Companiou.  6  Beloved. 

24,    Description  of  Spring. 

The  soote  '  season,  that  bud  and  bloom  forth  brings. 
With  green  hath  clad  the  hill,  and  eke  the  vale, 
The  nightingale  with  feathers  new  she  sings; 
The  turtle  to  her  make  ^  hath  told  her  tale. 
Summer  is  come,  for  every  spray  now  springs. 
The  hart  hath  hung  his  old  head  on  the  pale ; 
The  buck  in  brake  his  winter  coat  he  flings ; 
The  fishes  fleet  with  new  repaired  scale ; 
The  adder  all  her  slough  away  she  flings ; 
The  swift  swallow  pursueth  the  flies  small ; 
The  busy  bee  her  honey  now  she  mings ;  ^ 
Winter  is  worn  that  was  the  flower's  bale.* 
And  thus  I  see  among  these  pleasant  things 
Each  care  decays,  and  yet  my  sorrow  springs. 

1  Sweet  2  Mate.  3  Mingles.  4  Destructicm. 


2S,  Thomas,  Lord  Vaux.     (Manual,  p.  70.) 

Upon  his  White  Hairs. 

These  hairs  of  age  are  messengers 
Which  bid  me  fast  repent  and  pray; 
They  be  of  death  the  harbingers, 
That  doth  prepare  and  dress  the  way : 
Wherefore  I  joy  that  you  may  see 
Uj>on  my  head  such  hairs  to  be. 


48  CAXTON.  CttiP.  UL 

They  be  the  lines  that  lead  the  length 
How  far  my  race  was  for  to  run ; 
They  say  my  youth  is  fled  with  strength, 
And  how  old  age  is  well  begun ; 
The  which  I  feel,  and  you  may  see 
Such  lines  upon  my  head  to  be. 

They  be  the  strings  of  sober  sound, 
Whose  music  is  harmonical ; 
Their  tunes  declare  a  time  from  ground 
I  came,  and  how  thereto  I  shall : 
Wherefore  I  love  that  you  may  see 
Upon  my  head  such  hairs  to  be. 

God  grant  to  those  that  white  hairs  have, 
No  worse  them  take  than  I  have  meant; 
That  after  they  be  laid  in  grave, 
Their  souls  may  joy  their  lives  well  spent,' 
God  grant,  likewise,  that  you  may  see 
Upon  my  head  such  hairs  to  be. 


C  — ENGLISH     PROSE. 

20,  Caxton,  d.  1491.     (Manual,  p.  59.) 

Introduction  to  the  Morte  d'Arthur. 

After  that  I  had  accomplysshed  and  fynysshed  dyuers  hystoryes  as 
wel  of  contemplacyon  as  of  other  hystoryal  and  worldly  actes  of  grete 
conquerours  &  prynces.  And  also  certeyn  bookes  of  ensaumples  and 
doctryne.  Many  noble  and  dyuers  gentylmen  of  thys  royame  of  Eng- 
lond  camen  and  demaunded  me  many  and  oftymies,  wherfore  that  I 
haue  not  do  made  &  enprynte  the  noble  hystorye  of  the  saynt  greal, 
and  of  the  moost  renomed  crysten  Kyng.  Fyrst  and  chyef  of  the  thre 
best  crysten  and  worthy,  kyng  Arthur,  whyche  ought  moost  to  be  re- 
membred  emonge  vs  englysshe  men  tofore  al  other  crysten  kynges. 
For  it  is  notoyrly  knowen  thorugh  the  vnyuersal  world,  that  there  been 
ix  worthy  &  the  best  that  euer  were.  That  is  to  wete  thre  paynyms, 
thre  Jewes  and  thre  crysten  men.  As  for  the  paynyms  they  were  tofore 
the  Incarnacyon  of  Cryst,  whiche  were  named,  the  fyrst  Hector  of 
Troye,  of  whome  thystorye  is  comen  bothe  in  balade  and  in  prose. 
The  second  Alysaunder  the  grete,  &  the  thyrd  Julyus  Cezar  E'nperour 
of  Rome  of  whome  thystoryes  ben  wel  kno  and  had.  And  as  for  the 
thre  Jewes  whyche  also  were  tofore  thyncarnacyon  of  our  lord  of 
whome  the  fyrst  was  Due  Josue  whyche  brought  the  chyldren  of  Israhel 
in  to  the  londe  of  byheste.  The  second  Dauyd  kyng  of  Jherusalem,  & 
the  thyrd  Judas  Machabeus  of  these  thre  the  byble  reherceth  al  theyr 
noble  hystoryes  &  actes.     And  sythe  the  sayd  Incarnacyon  haue  ben 


A.  D.  1491.  BERNERS.  49 

thre  noble  crysten  men  stalled  and  admjtted  thorugh  the  vnyuersal 
world  in  to  the  nombre  of  the  ix  beste  &  worthy,  of  whome  was  fyrst 
the  noble  Arthur  whose  noble  actes  I  purpose  to  wrj^te  in  thys  present 
book  here  folowyng.  The  second  was  Charlemayn  or  Charles  the 
grete,  of  whome  thystorye  is  had  in  many  places  bothe  in  frensshe 
and  englysshe,  and  the  thyrd  and  last  was  Godefray  of  boloyn,  of 
whose  actes  &  life  I  made  a  book  vnto  thexcellent  prynce  and  kyng  of 
noble  memorye  kyng  Edward  the  fourth,  the  sayd  noble  Jentylmen 
instantly  requyred  me  temprynte  thystorye  of  the  sayd  noble  kyng  and 
conquerour  king  Arthur,  and  of  his  knyghtes  wyth  thystorye  of  the 
saynt  greal,  and  of  the  deth  and  endyng  of  the  sayd  Arthur.  Afferm- 
yng  that  I  ouzt  rather  tenprynet  his  actes  and  noble  feates,  than  of 
godefroye  of  boloyne,  or  any  of  the  other  eyght,  consyderyng  that 
he  was  a  man  born  wythin  this  royame  and  kyng  and  Emperour  of 
the  same. 


•  27*  Lord  Berners's  Froissart.     (Manual,  p.  62.) 

Anon  after  the  dethe  of  the  pope  Gregory,  the  cardynalles  drew 
them  into  the  conclaue,  in  the  palays  of  saynt  Peter.  Anone  after,  as 
they  were  entred  to  chose  a  pope,  acordyng  to  their  vsage,  such  one 
as  shuld  be  good  and  profytable  for  holy  churche,  the  romayns  assem- 
bled the  togj'der  in  a  great  nombre,  and  came  into  the  bowrage  of 
saynt  Peter :  they  were  to  the  nombre  of  xxx.  thousand  what  one  and 
other,  in  the  entent  to  do  yuell,  if  the  mater  went  nat  accordynge  to 
their  appetytes.  And  they  came  oftentymes  before  the  conclaue,  and 
sayd,  Harke,  ye  sir  cardj'nalles,  delj^uer  you  atones,  and  make  a  pope; 
ye  tary  to  longe;  if  ye  make  a  romayne,  we  woll  nat  chaung  him;  but 
yf  ye  make  any  other,  the  romayne  people  and  counsayles  woll  nat 
take  hym  for  pope,  and  ye  putte  yourselfe  all  in  aduenture  to  be  slayne. 
The  cardynals,  who  were  as  than  in  the  danger  of  the  romayns,  and 
herde  well  those  wordes,  they  were  nat  at  their  ease,  nor  assured  of 
their  lyues,  and  so  apeased  them  of  their  yre  as  well  as  they  myght 
with  fayre  wordes;  but  somoche  rose  the  felony  of  the  romayns, 
y*  suche  as  were  next  to  y*^  conclaue,  to  thentent  to  make  the  cardy- 
nalles afrayde,  and  to  cause  them  to  codiscende  the  rather  to  their 
opinyons,  brake  vp  the  dore  of  the  conclaue,  whereas  the  cardynalles 
were.  Than  the  cardynalles  went  surely  to  haue  been  slayne,  and  so 
fledde  away  to  saue  their  lyues,  some  one  waye  and  some  another; 
but  the  romayns  were  nat  so  content,  but  toke  them  and  put  them 
togyder  agayn,  whether  they  wolde  or  nat.  The  cardynalles  than 
seynge  theselfe  in  the  daunger  of  the  romayns,  and  in  great  parell  of 
their  lyues,  agreed  among  themselfe,  more  for  to  please  the  people 
than  for  any  deuocj^on ;  howbeit,  by  good  electyon  they  chase  an  holy 
man,  a  cardynall  of  the  romayne  nacion,  whome  pope  Vrbayne  the 
fyfte  had  made  cardynall,  and  he  was  called  before,  the  cardynall  of 
«aynt  Peter.     This  electyon  pleased  greatly  y^  romayns,  and  so  this 

4 


50  TYNDALE,  Chap.  III. 

good  man  had  all  the  ryghtes  that  belonged  to  the  papalite ;  howebeit 
he  lyued  nat  but  thre  dayes  after,  and  I  shall  shewe  you  why.  The 
romayns,  who  desj^red  a  pope  of  their  owne  nacion,  were  so  ioyfuU  of 
this  newe  pope,  y'  they  toke  hym,  who  was  a  hundred  yere  of  age,  and 
sette  hym  on  a  whyte  mule,  and  so  ledde  him  vp  and  doune  through 
y^  cytie  of  Rome,  exaltyng  him,  and  shewyng  howe  they  had  va« 
quesshed  the  cardynals,  seyng  they  had  a  pope  romayn  accordyng  to 
their  owne  ententes,  in  so  moche  that  the  good  holy  man  was  so  sore 
traueyled  that  he  tell  syck,  and  so  dyed  the  thyrde  daye,  and  was 
buryed  in  the  churche  of  saynt  Peter,  and  there  he  lyethe. — Reprint 
of  1S12,  vol.  i.  pp.  510,511. 


28,  Tyndale,  d.  1536.     (Manual,  p.  62.) 

Matthew's  Gospel,  Chap.  viii. 

When  Jesus  was  come  downe  from  the  mountayne,  moch  people 
folowed  him.  And  lo,  there  cam  a  lepre,  and  worsheped  him  saynge, 
Master,  if  thou  wylt,  thou  canst  make  me  clene.  He  putt  forthe  his 
hond  and  touched  him  saynge:  I  will,  be  clene,  and  immediatly  his 
leprosy  was  clensed.  And  Jesus  said  vnto  him.  Se  thou  tell  no  man, 
but  go  and  shewe  thysilf  to  the  preste  and  offer  the  gyfte,  that  Moses 
commaunded  to  be  offred,  in  witnes  to  them.  When  Jesus  was  entred 
in  to  Capernaum,  there  cam  vnto  him  a  certayne  Centurion,  besechyng 
him  And  saynge  :  Master,  my  servaunt  lyeth  sicke  att  home  off  the 
palsye,  and  is  grevously  payned.  And  Jesus  sayd  vnto  him.  I  will 
come  and  cure  him.  The  Centurion  answered  and  saide  :  Syr  I  am 
not  worthy  that  thou  shuldest  com  vnder  the  rofe  of  my  housse,  but 
speake  the  worde  only  and  my  servaunt  shalbe  healed.  For  y  also 
my  selfe  am  a  man  vndre  power,  and  have  sowdeeres  vndre  me,  and  y 
saye  to  one,  go,  and  he  goeth :  and  to  anothre,  come,  and  he  cometh : 
and  to  my  servaunt,  do  this,  and  he  doeth  it.  When  Jesus  herde  these 
saynges :  he  marveyled,  and  said  to  them  that  folowed  liim:  Verely 
y  say  vnto  you,  I  have  not  founde  so  great  fayth  :  no,  not  in  Israeli. 
I  say  therfore  vnto  you,  that  many  shall  come  from  the  eest  and  weest, 
and  shall  rest  with  Abraham,  Ysaac  and  Jacob,  in  the  kyngdom  of 
heven  :  And  the  children  of  the  kingdom  shalbe  cast  out  in  to  the 
vtmoost  dercknes,  there  shalbe  wepinge  and  gnasshing  of  tethe.  Then 
Jesus  said  vnto  the  Centurion,  go  thy  waye,  and  as  thou  hast  believed 
so  be  it  vnto  the.  And  his  servaunt  was  healed  that  same  houre. 
And  Jesus  went  into  Peters  housse,  and  saw  his  wyves  mother  lyinge 
sicke  of  a  fevre.  And  he  thouched  her  hande,  and  the  fevre  leeft  her ; 
and  she  arose,  and  ministred  vnto  them.  When  the  even  was  come 
they  brought  vnto  him  many  that  were  possessed  with  devylles,  And 
he  cast  out  the  spirites  with  a  word,  and  healed  all  that  were  sicke. 
To  fulfill  that  whiche  was  spoken  by  Esay  the  prophet  sainge :  He 
toke  on  him  oure  infix-mytes,  and  bare  ourc  sicknesses.     When  Jesua 


A.  D.  1555.  LATIMER.  51 

saw  moche  people  about  him,  he  commaunded  to  go  over  the  water- 
And  there  cam  a  scribe  and  said  vnto  him  :  master,  I  woll  folowe  the 
whjthersumever  thou  goest.  And  Jesus  said  vnto  him :  the  foxes 
have  holes,  and  the  byrddes  of  the  aier  have  nestes,  but  the  sonne  of 
man  hath  not  whereon  to  leye  his  heede  :  Anothre  that  was  one  of  hys 
disciples  seyd  vnto  him :  master  suffre  me  fyrst  to  go  and  burye  my 
father.  But  Jesus  said  vnto  him :  folowe  me,  and  let  the  deed  burie 
their  deed.  And  he  entred  in  to  a  shyppe,  and  his  disciples  folowed 
him,  And  lo  there  arose  a  greate  storme  in  the  see,  in  so  moche,  that 
the  shippe  was  hyd  with  waves,  and  he  was  aslepe.  And  his  disciples 
cam  vnto  him,  and  awoke  him,  sayinge :  master,  save  us,  we  perishe. 
And  he  said  vnto  them  :  why  are  ye  fearfull,  o  ye  endewed  with  lytell 
faithe.^  Then  he  arose,  and  rebuked  the  wyndes  and  the  see,  and 
there  folowed  a  greate  calme.  And  men  marveyled  and  said :  what 
man  is  this,  that  bothe  wyndes  and  see  obey  him?  And  when  he  was 
come  to  the  other  syde,  in  to  the  countre  off  the  gergesens,  there  met 
him  two  possessed  of  devylls,  which  cam  out  off  the  graves,  and  were 
out  off  measure  fearce,  so  that  no  man  myght  go  by  that  waye.  And 
lo  they  cryed  out  saynge :  O  Jesu  the  sonne  off  God,  what  have  we  to 
do  with  the  ?  art  thou  come  hyther  to  torment  vs  before  the  tyme  [be 
come]  ?  There  was  a  good  waye  off  from  them  a  greate  heerd  of 
swyne  fedinge.  Then  the  devyls  besought  him  saynge:  if  thou  cast 
vs  out,  suffre  vs  to  go  oure  waye  into  the  heerd  of  swyne.  And  he  said 
vnto  them  :  go  youre  wayes :  Then  went  they  out,  and  departed  into 
the  heerd  of  swyne.  And  lo,  all  the  heerd  of  swyne  was  caryed  with 
violence  hedlinge  into  the  see,  and  perisshed  in  the  water.  Then  the 
heerdmen  fleed,  and  went  there  ways  into  the  cite,  and  tolde  every 
thinge,  and  what  had  fortuned  vnto  them  that  were  possessed  of  the 
devyls.  And  lo,  all  the  cite  cam  out,  and  met  Jesus.  And  when  they 
sawe  him  they  besought  him,  to  depart  out  off  there  costes. 


29.  Hugh  Latimer,  d.  1555.     (Manual,  p.  62.) 

(From  his  Sermons.) 

I  can  not  go  to  my  boke  for  pore  folkes  come  vnto  me,  desirynge 
me  that  I  wyll  speake  y*  theyr  matters  maye  be  heard.  I  trouble  my 
Lord  of  Canterburye,  &  beynge  at  hys  house  nowe  and  then  I  walka 
in  the  garden  lokyng  in  my  boke,  as  I  canne  do  but  little  good  at  it. 
But  some  thynge  I  muste  nedes  do  to  satisfye  thys  place. 

I  am  no  soner  in  the  garden  and  haue  red  a  whyle,  but  by  and  by 
commeth  there  some  or  other  knocking  at  the  gate. 

Anone  cometh  my  man  and  sayth  :  Syr,  there  is  one  at  the  gate 
woulde  speake  wyth  you.  When  I  come  there,  then  is  it  some  01 
other  that  desireth  me  that  I  wyll  speake  that  hys  matter  might  be 
heard,  &  that  he  hath  layne  thys  longe  at  great  costes  and  charges* 


52  MORE.  Chap.  III. 

and  can  not  once  haue  hys  matter  come  to  the  hearing,  but  amog  all 
other,  one  especially  moued  me  at  thys  time  to  speake. 

Thys  it  is  syr :  A  gentylwoman  came  to  me  and  tolde  me,  that  a 
greate  man  kepeth  certaine  landes  of  hyrs  from  hyr  and  wilbo  hyr 
tenaunte  in  the  spite  of  hyr  tethe.  And  that  in  a  whole  twelue  moneth 
she  coulde  not  gette  but  one  daye  for  the  hearynge  of  hyr  matter,  and 
the  same  daye  when  the  matter  shoulde  be  hearde,  the  greate  manna 
broughte  on  hys  syde  a  greate  syghte  of  Lawyers  for  hys  counsayle, 
the  gentilwoman  had  but  one  ma  of  lawe :  and  the  great  man  shakes 
him  so,  so  that  he  cat  [not]  tell  what  to  do,  so  that  when  the  matter 
came  to  the  poynte,  the  Judge  was  a  meane  to  the  gentylwoman  that 
she  wold  let  the  great  ma  haue  a  quietnes  in  hyr  Lande.  I  beseche 
your  grace  that  ye  wyll  loke  to  these  matters. 


50.  Sir  Thomas  More,  1480-1535.     (Manual,  p.  61.) 
Description  of  Richard  III. 

Richarde,  the  thirde  sonne  of  Richarde,  Duke  of  York,  was  in  witte 
and  courage  egall  with  his  two  brothers,  in  bodye  and  prowesse  farre 
vnder  them  bothe,  little  of  stature,  ill  fetured  of  limmes,  croke  backed, 
his  left  shoulder  much  higher  than  his  right,  hard  fauoured  of  visage, 
and  such  as  is  in  states  called  warlye,  in  other  menne  otherwise,  he 
was   malicious,    wrathfull,  enuious,   and    from    afore    his   birth,    euer 
frowarde.  .  .  .  None  euill  captaine  was  hee  in  the  warre,  as  to  whiche 
his  disposicion  was  more  metely  then  for  peace.     Sundrye  victories 
hadde  hee,  and  sommetime  ouerthrowes,  but  neuer  in  defaulte  as  for 
his  owne  parsone,  either  of  hardinesse  or  polytike  order,  free  was  hee 
called  of  dyspence,   and  sommewhat  aboue  hys  power  liberal!,  with 
large  giftes  hee  get  him  vnstedfaste  frendeshippe,  for  whiche  hee  was 
fain  to  pil  and  spoyle  in  other  places,  and  get  him  stedfast  hatred. 
Hee  was  close  and  secrete,  a  deepe    dissimuler,  lowlye  of  countey- 
naunce,  arrogant  of  heart,  outwardly  coumpinable  where  he  inwardely 
hated,  not  letting  to  kisse  whome  hee  though te  to  kyll :  dispitious  and 
cruell,  not  for  euill  will  alway,  but  after  for  ambicion,  and  either  for 
the  suretie  or  encrease  of  his  estate.     Frende  and  foo  was  muche  what 
indifferent,  where  his  aduantage  grew,  he  spared  no  mans  deathe,  whose 
life  withstoode  his  purpose.     He  slewe  with  his  owne  handes  king 
Henry  the  sixt,  being  prisoner  in  the  Tower,  as  menne  constantlj' 
saye,  and  that  without  commaundement  or  knoweledge  of  the  king, 
whiche  woulde  vndoubtedly  yf  he  had  entended  that  thinge,  haue  ap- 
pointed that  boocherly  office,  to  some  other  then   his  owne  borne 
brother. 


A.  D.  1515-1568.  ASCEAM.  53 

31,  Roger  AscHAM,  1515-1568.     (Manual,  p.  64.) 

(From  the  School  Master.) 

And  one  example,  whether  love  or  feare  doth  worke  more  in  a 
childe,  for  vertue  and  learning,  I  will  gladlie  report:  which  male  be 
hard  with  some  pleasure,   and  folowed  with  more  profit.     Before  I 
went  into  Germanie,  I  came  to  Brodegate  in  Lecetershire,  to  take  my 
leave  of  that  noble  Ladie  Jane  Grey,  to  whom  I  was  exceding  moch 
beholdinge.     Hir  parentes,   the  Duke  and   the  Duches,  with  all  the 
houshould,    Gentlemen    and    Gentlewomen,    were    huntinge   in    the 
Parke  :  I  founde  her,  in  her  Chamber,  readinge  Phoedon   Platonis  in 
Greeke,  and  that  with  as  moch  delite,  as  som  jentleman  wold  read  a 
merie  tale  in  Bocase.     After  salutation,  and  dewtie  done,  with  som 
other  taulke,  I  asked  hir,  whie  she  wold  leese  soch  pastime  in  the 
Parke?  smiling  she  answered   me:    I  wisse,    all    their   sporte  in   the 
Parke  is  but  a  shadoe  to  that  pleasure,  that  I  find  in  Plato  :  Alas  good 
folke,  they  never  felt,  what  trewe  pleasure  ment.    And  howe  came  you 
Madame,  quoth  I,  to  this  deepe  knowledge  of  pleasure,  and  what  did 
chieflie  allure  you  unto  it:  seinge,  not  many  women,  but  verie  fewe 
men  have  atteined  thereunto?    I  will  tell  you,  quoth  she,  and  tell  you 
a  troth,  which  perchance  ye  will  mervell  at.     One  of  the  greatest  ben- 
efites,  that  ever  God  gave  me,  is,  that  he  sent  me  so  sharpe  and  severe 
Parentes,  and  so  jentle  a  scholeinaster.     For  when  I  ain  in  presence 
either  of  father  or  mother,  whether  I  speake,  kepe  silence,  sit,  stand, 
or  go,  eate,  drinke,  be  merie,  or  sad,   be  sowyng,  plaiyng,  dauncing, 
or  doing  anie  thing  els,   I  must  do  it,  as   it  were,   in   soch  weight, 
mesure,  and  number,  even  so  perfitelie,  as  God  made  the  world,  or 
else  I  am  so  sharplie  taunted,  so  cruellie  threatened,  yea  presentlie 
some  tymes,  with  pinches,  nippes,  and  bobbes,  and  other  waies,  which 
I  will  not  name,  for  the  honor  I  beare  them,  so  without  measure  mis- 
ordered,  that  I  thinke  my  selfe  in  hell,  till  tyme  cum,  that  I  must  go 
to  M.  Elmer,  who  teacheth  me  so  jentlie,  so  pleasantlie,  with  soch 
faire   allurementes  to   learning,   that  I  thinke  all  the  tyme  nothing, 
whiles  I  am  with  him.     And  when  I  am  called  from  him,  I  fall  on 
weeping,  because,  what  soever  I  do  els,  but  learning,  is  ful  of  grief, 
trouble,   feare,   and  whole  misliking  unto  me :  And  thus  my  booke, 
aath  bene  so  moch  my  pleasure,  and  bringeth  dayly  to  me  more  pleas- 
ure and  more,  that  in  respect  of  it,  all  other  pleasures,  in  very  deede, 
be  but  trifles  and  troubles  unto  me.     I  remember  this  talke  gladly, 
both  bicause  it  is  so  worthy  of  memorie,  and  bicause  also,  it  was  the 
last  talke  that  ever  I  had,  and  the  last  tyme,  that  ever  I  saw  that  noble 
and  worthie  Ladie. 


54  ANCIENT  BALLAD  OF  CHEVY  CHASE.      Chap.  IIL 


D.  — BALLADS. 

32*    The  Ancient  Ballad  of  Chevy  Chase,     (Manual, 

pp.  67-69.) 

Sir  Philip  Sydney,  in  his  Discburse  of  Poetry,  speaks  of  this  Ballad 
in  the  following  words:  —  "I  never  heard  the  old  song  of  Piercy 
ar:.l  Douglas,  that  I  found  not  my  heart  more  moved  than  with  a 
tnmpet;  and  yet  it  is  sung  by  some  blind  crowder  with  no  rougher 
voice  than  rude  stile ;  which  being  so  evil  apparelled  in  the  dust  and 
cobweb  of  that  uncivil  age,  what  would  it  work  trimmed  in  the  gor- 
geous eloquence  of  Pindar.'"' 

The  First  Fit.* 

The  Pers^  owt^  of  Northombarlande, 

And  a  vowe  to  God  mayd  he, 
That  he  wolde  hunte  in  the  mountayns 

Off  Chyviat  within  dayes  thre, 
In  the  mauger^  of  dougte  Dogles, 

And  all  that  ever  with  him  be. 

The  fattiste  hartes  in  all  Cheviat 

He  sayd  he  wold  kill,  and  cary  them  away : 

Be  my  feth,  sayd  the  dougheti  Doglas  agayn, 
I  wyll  lef  that  hontyng  yf  that  I  may. 

Then  the  Persfe  owt  of  Banborowe  cam, 

With  him  a  myghtye  meany ;  ^ 
With  fifteen  hondrith  archares  bold ; 

The  wear  chosen  out  of  shyars  thre. 

This  begane  on  a  Monday  at  morn 

In  Cheviat  the  hillys  so  he; 
The  chyld  may  rue  that  ys  un-born, 

It  was  the  mor  pitte. 

The  dryvars  thorowe  the  woodes  went 

For  to  reas  the  dear; 
Bomen  bickarte  uppone  the  bent* 

With  ther  browd  aras  cleare. 

Then  the  wyld  thorowe  the  woodes  went 
On  every  syde  shear : 

1  Fit  is  a  part  or  division  of  a  song.       2  Out.       3  In  spite  of.       4  Hinder.       6  Company        6  Field 


Chap.  III.       ANCIENT  BALLAD   OF  CHEVY  CHASE.  55 

Grea-hondes  thorowe  the  greves  glent 
For  to  kyll  thear  dear. 

The  begane  in  Chjviat  the  hjls  ab  ive 

Yerly  on  a  monnyn  day ; 
Be  that  it  drewe  to  the  owai'e  '  off  none 

A  hondrith  fat  hartes  ded  ther  lay. 

The  blewe  a  mort  uppone  the  bent, 

The  semblyd  on  sydis  shear ; 
To  the  quyrry  *  then  the  Perse  went 

To  se  the  bryttlynge  off  the  deare. 

He  sayd,  It  was  the  Duglas  promys 

This  day  to  meet  me  hear; 
But  I  wyste  he  wold  faylle  verament: 

A  gret  oth  the  Perse  swear. 

At  the  laste  a  squyar  of  Northombelonde 

Lokyde  at  his  hand  full  ny, 
He  was  war^  ath  the  doughetie  Doglas  corayngasj 

With  him  a  mighte  meany^ 

Both  with  spear,  by  11,*"  and  brande  :  " 

Yt  was  a  royghti  sight  to  se, 
Hardyar  men  both  off  hart  nar  hande 

Were  not  in  Christiante. 

The  wear  twenty  hondritli  spear-men  good 

Withouten  any  fayle ; 
The  wear  borne  a-long  be  the  watter  a  Twyde, 

Yth  '^  bowndes  of  Tividale. 

LcKve  off  the  br}i;lyng  of  the  dear,  he  sayde, 
And  to  your  bowys  look  ye  tayk  good  heed ; 

For  never  sithe  ye  wear  on  your  mothars  borne 
Had  ye  never  so  mickle  need. 

The  dougheti  Dogglas  on  a  stede 

He  rode  att  his  men  beforne  ; 
His  armor  glytteryde  as  dyd  a  glede ;  ** 

A  bolder  barne  was  never  born. 

Tell  me  'what'  men  ye  ar,  he  says. 

Or  whos  men  that  ye  be  : 
Who  gave  youe  leave  to  hunte  in  this 

Chy  viat  chays  in  the  spyt  of  me  ? 

I  Hour.        «  Quarry.       9  Awar-e.       XO  Battle-axe.       U  Sword.       12  In  the.       13  A  red-not  coai 


56        ANCIENT  BALLAD  OF  CHEVY  CHASE.         Chap.  III. 

The  first  mane  that  ever  him  an  answear  majd, 

Yt  was  the  good  lord  Perse : 
We  wjll  not  tell  the  '  what '  men  we  ar,  he  says. 

Nor  whos  men  that  we  be  ; 
But  we  wjll  hount  hear  in  this  chajs 

In  the  spjte  of  thjne,  and  of  the. 

The  fattiste  hartes  in  all  Chyviat 

We  have  kyld,  and  cast  ^*  to  carry  them  a-way. 

Be  my  troth,  sayd  the  doughte  Dogglas  agayn, 
Ther-for  the  ton  ^^  of  us  shall  de  this  day. 

Then  sayd  the  doughte  Doglas 

Unto  the  lord  Pers^  : 
To  kyll  all  thes  giltless  men, 

A-las !  it  wear  great  pitte. 

But,  Pers^,  thowe  art  a  lord  of  lande, 
I  am  a  yerle  *^  callyd  within  my  contre; 

Let  all  our  men  uppone  a  parti  stande ; 
And  do  the  battell  off  the  and  of  me. 

Now  Cristes  cors  on  his  crowne,  sayd  the  lord  Pers^fe, 

Who-soever  ther-to  says  nay. 
Be  my  troth,  doughte  Doglas,  he  says, 

Thow  shalt  never  se  that  day ; 

Nethar  in  Ynglonde,  Skottlonde,  nar  France, 

Nor  for  no  man  of  a  woman  bom, 
But  and  fortune  be  my  chance, 

I  dar  met  him  on  man  for  on. 

Then  bespayke  a  squyar  off  Northombarlonde, 

Ric.  Wytharynton  was  him  nam ; 
It  shall  never  be  told  in  Sothe-Ynglonde, 

To  kyng  Herry  the  fourth  for  sham. 

I  wat "  youe  byn  '^  great  lordes  twaw, 

I  am  a  poor  squyar  of  lande ; 
I  will  never  se  my  captayne  fyght  on  a  fylde. 

And  stande  my-selffe,  and  looke  on, 
But  whyll  I  may  my  weppone  welde, 

I  wyll  not  '  fayl '  both  harte  and  hande. 

That  day,  that  day,  that  dredfull  day ; 

The  first  fit  here  I  fynde. 
And  youe  wyll  here  any  mor  athe  hountyng  athe  Chyviat, 

Yet  ys  ther  mor  behynde. 

M  Mejui.  15  One.  16  Earl.  17  Know.  18  Are. 


Chap.  m.        ANCIENT  BALLAD   OF  CHEVY  CHASE.        57 


The  Second  Fit. 

The  Yngglishe  men  hade  ther  bowys  yebent, 

The  hartes  were  good  yenoughe ; 
The  first  of  arros  that  the  shote  off, 

Seven  skore  spear-men  the  sloughe.'* 

Yet  bjdys  the  yerle  Doglas  uppon  the  bent 

A  captayne  good  yenoughe, 
And  that  was  sene  verament, 

For  he  wrought  hom  both  woo  and  wouche.* 

The  Dogglas  pertyd  his  ost  in  thre,     - 

Like  a  cheffe  cheften  ^^  off  pryde, 
With  suar  ^^  speares  of  myghtte  tre 

The  cum  in  on  every  syde. 

Thrughe  our  Yngglishe  archery 

Gave  many  a  wounde  full  wyde ; 
Many  a  doughete  the  garde  to  dy, 

Which  ganyde  ^^  them  no  pryde. 

The  Yngglishe  men  let  thear  bowys  be, 
And  pulde  ^*  owt  brandes  that  wer  bright; 

It  was  a  hevy  syght  to  se 

Bryght  swordes  on  basnites  ^^  lyght. 

Thorowe  ryche  male,  and  myne-ye-ple 
Many  sterne  the  stroke  downe  streight : 

Many  a  freyke  '^  that  was  full  free, 
That  undar  foot  dyd  lyght. 

At  last  the  Duglas  and  the  Pers6  met, 
Lyk  to  captayns  of  myght  and  mayne ; 

The  swapte  togethar  tyll  the  both  swat 
With  swordes,  that  wear  of  fyn  myllan. 

Thes  worths  freckys  for  to  fyght 

Ther-to  the  wear  full  fayne, 
Tyll  the  bloode  owte  off  their  basnites  sprente," 

As  ever  dyd  heal  ^  or  rayne. 

Holde  the,  Persfe,  sayd  the  Doglas, 

And  i'  feth  I  shall  the  brynge 
Wher  thowe  shalte  have  a  yerls  wagis 

Of  Jamy  our  Scottish  kynge. 

»  Slew.  20  Mischief.  21  Chieftain.  22  Heavy.  83  Gained.  24  Pitied 

S5  Helmete.  20  Fellow.  27  Sprung.  S  HaiL 


58        ANCIENT  BALLAD   OF  CHEVY  CHASE.        Chap.  III. 

Thoue  shalte  have  thy  ransom  fre, 

I  hight^^  the  hear  this  thinge, 
For  the  manfulljste  man  yet  art  thowe, 

That  ever  I  conqueryd  in  filde  fightyng. 

Nay  '  then '  sayd  the  lord  Persfe, 

I  tolde  it  the  beforne, 
That  I  wolde  never  yeldyde  be 

To  no  man  of  a  woman  born. 

With  that  ther  cam  an  arrowe  hastely 

Forthe  off  a  mightie  wane,^** 
Hit  hathe  strekene  the  yerle  Duglas 

In  at  the  brest  bane. 

Thoroue  lyvar  and  longs  bathe" 

The  sharp  arrowe  ys  gane, 
That  never  after  in  all  his  lyffe  days, 

He  spayke  mo  wordes  but  ane, 
That  was,  Fyghte  ye,  my  merry  men  whylljs^^ye  may, 

For  my  lyfF  days  ben  ^^  gan. 

The  Pers6  leanyde^*  on  his  brande, 

And  sawe  the  Duglas  de ;  •''^ 
He  tooke  the  dede  man  be  the  hande, 

And  sayd,  Wo  ys  me  for  the ! 

To  have  sayvde  thy  lyffe  I  wold  have  pertyd^*  with 

My  landes  for  years  thre, 
For  a  better  man  of  hart,  nare  of  hande 

Was  not  in  all  the  north  country. 

Of  all  that  se  "  a  Skottishe  knyght, 

Was  callyd  Sir  Hewe  the  Mongonbyrry, 

He  sawe  the  Duglas  to  the  deth  was  dyght;  ^* 
He  spendyd  ^^  a  spear  a  trusti  tre : 

He  rod  uppon  a  corsiare 

Throughe  a  hondrith  archery; 
He  never  styntyde^*'  nar  never  blane,^* 

Tyll  he  cam  to  the  good  lord  Persfe. 

He  set  uppone  the  lord  Pers6 

A  dynte  that  was  full  soare ; 
With  a  suar  spear  of  a  myght^  tre 

Clean  thorow  the  body  he  the  Pers^  bore, 

»  Entreat.       30  Ane,  one,  ac.  man.       31  Both.         32  Whilst.       33  Are.       34  Leaned.       86  DU 
£0  Parted.  37  Saw.         33  Put.         39  Grasped.         40  Stopped.  41  Staid. 


CUAP.  m.       ANCIENT  BALLAD    OF   CHEVY  CHASE,  59 

Athe  ^^  tothar  syde,  that  a  man  myght  se, 

A  large  cloth  yard  and  mare : 
Towe  Dettar  captajns  wear  nat  in  Christiant^ 

Then  that  day  slain  were  ther. 

An  archar  off  Northomberlonde 

Say  slean  was  the  lord  Persfe, 
He  bar  a  bende-bow  in  his  hande. 

Was  made  off  trusti  tre  : 

An  arow,  that  a  cloth  yarde  was  lang. 

To  th'  hard  stele  haylde  *^  he ; 
A  dynt,  that  was  both  sad  and  sore. 

He  sat  on  Sir  Hewe  the  Mongon-byrrj, 

The  dynt  yt  was  both  sad  and  sar, 

That  he  of  Mongon-byrry  sete ; 
The  swane-fethars,  that  his  arrowe  bar,*" 

With  his  hart  blood  the  wear  wete. 

Ther  was  never  a  freake  wone  foot  wolde  fle. 

But  still  in  stour"*^  dyd  stand, 
Heawying  on  yche  othar,  whyll  the  myght  dre. 

With  many  a  bal-ful  brande. 

This  battell  begane  in  Chyviat 

An  owar"*®  befor  the  none. 
And  when  even  song  bell  was  rang 

The  battell  was  nat  half  done. 

The  tooke  '  on  '  on  ethar  hand 

Be  the  lyght  off  the  mone ; 
Many  hade  no  strength  for  to  stande. 

In  Chyviat  the  hyllys  aboun. 


47 


Of  fifteen  hondrith  archers  of  Ynglonde 

Went  away  but  fifti  and  thre; 
Of  twenty  hondrith  spear-men  of  Skotlondc, 

But  even  five  and  fifti : 

But  all  wear  slayne  Cheviat  within  : 

The  hade  no  strengthe  to  stand  on  hie; 

The  chylde  may  rue  that  ys  un-borne, 
It  was  the  mor  pitt^. 

Thear  was  slayne  with  the  lord  Pers^ 

Sir  John  of  Agerstone, 
Sir  Roge  the  hinde  Hartly, 

Sir  Wylham  the  bolde  Hearone. 

II  At  the.  *3  Hauled.  «  Bore.  45  Fight.  «  Hour.  «  Abovo 


60  ANCIENT  BALLAD   OF  CHEVY  CHASE.      Chap.  IIL 

Sir  Jorg  the  worthe  Lovele 

A  knight  of  great  renowen, 
Sir  Raff  the  rjch  Rugb^ 

With  dyntes  wear  beaten  dowene. 

For  Wetharrjngton  my  harte  was  wo, 

That  ever  he  slayne  shulde  be; 
For  when  both  his  leggis  wear  hewyne  in  to, 

Yet  he  knyled  and  fought  on  hys  kne. 

Ther  was  slayne  with  the  dougheti  Douglas 

Sir  Hewe  the  Mongon-byrry, 
Sir  Davye  Lwdale,  that  worthe  was, 

His  sistars  son  was  he: 

Sir  Charles  a  Murr^,  in  that  place, 

That  never  a  foot  wolde  fie; 
Sir  Hewe  Maxwell,  a  lorde  he  was, 

With  the  Duglas  dyd  he  dey. 

So  on  the  morrowe  the  mayde  them  byears 

Oft'  byrch,  and  hasell  so  '  gray ; ' 
Many  wedous  with  wepyng  tears 

Cam  to  fach  ''^  ther  makys  a-way. 

Tivydale  may  carpe*^  off  care, 

Northombarlond  may  mayk  grat  mone, 

For  towe  such  captayns,  as  slayne  wear  thear, 
On  the  march  perti  shall  never  be  none. 

Wordeys  commen  to  Edden  burrowe. 

To  Jamy  the  Skottishe  kyng, 
That  dougheti  Duglas,  lyft-tenant  of  the  Marches, 

He  lay  slean  Chyviot  with-in. 

His  handdes  did  he  weal  ^°  and  wryng. 

He  sayd,  Alas,  and  woe  ys  me ! 
Such  another  captayn  Skotland  within, 

He  sayd,  y-feth  shud  never  be. 

Worde  ys  commyn  to  lovly  Londone 

Till  the  fourth  Harry  our  kyng. 
That  lord  Perse,  leyff-tennante  of  the  Merchis, 

He  lay  slayne  Chyviat  within. 

God  have  merci  on  his  soil,  sayd  kyng  Harry, 
Good  lord,  yf  thy  will  it  be  I 

«e  Fetch  49  Lament.  SO  WaU. 


Chap.  III.        ANCIENT  BALLAD   OF  CHEVY  CHASE.  61 

I  have  a  hondrith  captajns  in  Ynglonde, 

As  good  as  ever  was  hee  : 
But  Perse,  and  I  brook  °'  my  lyffe, 

Thy  deth  well  quy te  °^  shall  be. 

As  our  noble  kyng  made  his  a-vowe, 
Lyke  a  noble  prince  of  renowen, 
,  For  the  deth  of  the  lord  Perse, 

He  dyd  the  battel  of  Hombyll-down  : 

Wher  syx  and  thritte  '°^  Skottish  knyghtes 

On  a  day  wear  beaten  down  : 
Glendale  glytteryde  on  ther  armor  bryght, 

Over  castill,  towar,  and  town. 

This  was  the  hontynge  off  the  Cheviat; 

That  tear  begane  this  spurn  : 
Old  men  that  knowen  the  gr&»vnde  well  yenoughe. 

Call  it  the  Battell  of  Otteroarn. 

At  Otterburn  began  this  spurne 

Uppon  a  monnyn  day  : 
Ther  was  the  dougghte  Doglas  slean, 

The  Perse  never  went  away 

Ther  was  never  a  tym  on  the  march  partes 

Sen  ^'*  the  Doglas  and  the  Perse  met, 
But  yt  was  marvele,  and  the  redde  blude  ronne  not, 

As  the  reane  doys  in  the  stret. 

Jhesue  Christ  our  balys  bete, 

And  to  the  blys  us  brynge ! 
Thus  was  the  hountynge  of  the  Chevyat: 

God  send  us  all  good  ending  1 

61  Enjoy.  6-.'Paid.  f^  Thirty.  M  Since. 


33*    The  more  modern  Ballad  of  Chevy  Chase. 

Thi?  form  of  the  Ballad  was  probably  written  not  much  later  than 
the  time  of  Queen  Elizabeth.  It  is  the  one  criticised  by  AddisOD  io 
the  *  Spectator,'  Nos.  70  and  74. 

God  prosper  long  our  noble  king, 

Our  lives  and  safetyes  all ; 
A  woefull  hunting  once  there  did 

In  Chevy-Chace  befall ; 


62  MODERN  BALLAD   OF  CHEVY  CHASE,      Chap.  IIL 

To  drive  the  deere  with  hound  and  home, 

Erie  Percy  took  his  waj ; 
The  child  may  rue  that  is  unborne, 

The  hunting  of  that  day. 

The  stout  Erie  of  Northumberland 

A  vovr  to  God  did  make, 
His  pleasure  in  the  Scottish  woods 

Three  summers  days  to  take ; 

The  cheefest  harts  in  Chevy-Chace 

To  kill  and  beare  awav. 
These  tydings  to  Erie  Douglas  came, 

In  Scottland  where  he  lay : 

Who  sent  Erie  Percy  present  word, 

He  wold  prevent  his  sport. 
The  English  Erie,  not  fearing  that, 

Did  to  the  woods  resort 

With  fifteen  hundred  bow-men  bold; 

All  chosen  men  of  might, 
Who  knew  full  well  in  time  of  neede 

To  ayme  their  shafts  arright. 

The  gallant  greyhounds  swiftly  ran. 

To  chase  the  fallow  deere  : 
On  munday  they  began  to  hunt 

Ere  day-light  did  appeare ; 

And  long  before  high  noone  they  had 

An  hundred  fat  buckes  slaine ; 
Then  having  dined,  the  drovyers  went 

To  rouze  the  deare  againe. 

The  bow-men  mustered  on  the  hills, 

Well  able  to  endure ; 
Theire  backsides  all,  with  speciall  care, 

That  day  were  guarded  sure. 

The  hounds  ran  swiftly  through  the  woods, 

The  nimble  deere  to  take, 
That  with  their  cryes  the  hills  and  dales 

An  eccho  shrill  did  make. 

Lord  Percy  to  the  quarry  went, 

To  view  the  slaughter'd  deere: 
Quoth  he,  "  Erie  Douglas  promised 

This  day  to  meet  me  heere  : 


Chap.  III.  MODERN  BALLAD   OF  CHEVY  CEASE,  63 

But  if  I  thought  he  wold  not  come, 

Noe  longer  wold  I  stay." 
With  that,  a  brave  jounge  gentleman 

Thus  to  the  Erie  did  say : 

"Loe,  yonder  doth  Erie  Douglas  come, 

His  men  in  armour  bright; 
Full  twenty  hundred  Scottish  speres 

All  marching  in  our  sight; 

All  men  of  pleasant  Tivydale, 

Fast  by  the  river  Tweede  :  " 
♦*  O,  cease  your  sports,"  Erie  Percy  said, 

"And  take  your  bowes  with  speede  : 

And  now  with  me,  my  countrymen, 

Your  courage  forth  advance ; 
For  there  was  never  champion  yett,  ' 

In  Scotland  or  in  France, 

That  ever  did  on  horsebacke  come. 

But  if  my  hap  it  were, 
I  durst  encounter  inan  for  man. 

With  him  to  break  a  spere." 

Erie  Douglas  on  his  milke-white  steede, 

Most  like  a  baron  bold. 
Rode  formost  of  his  company. 

Whose  armour  shone  like  gold. 

"  Show  me,"  sayd  hee,  "whose  men  you  bee, 

That  hunt  soe  boldly  heere. 
That,  without  my  consent,  doe  chase 

And  kill  my  fallow-deere." 

The  first  man  that  did  answer  make, 

Was  noble  Percy  hee ; 
Who  sayd,  "Wee  list  not  to  declare, 

Nor  shew  whose  men  wee  bee : 

Yet  wee  will  spend  our  deerest  blood. 

Thy  cheefest  harts  to  slay." 
Then  Douglas  swore  a  solempne  oathe, 

And  thus  in  rage  did  say, 

*'  Ere  thus  I  will  out-braved  bee, 

One  of  us  two  shall  dye  : 
I  know  thee  well,  an  erle  thou  art; 

Lord  Percy,  soe  am  I. 


64  MODERN  BALLAD   OF  CHEVY  CEASE.      Chap.  111. 

But  trust  me,  Percy,  pittje  it  were, 

And  great  offence  to  kill 
Any  of  these  our  guiltlesse  men, 

For  they  have  done  no  ill. 

Let  thou  and  I  the  battell  trye, 

And  set  our  men  aside." 
''Accurst  bee  he,"  Erie  Percy  sayd, 

By  whome  this  is  denyed." 

Then  stept  a  gallant  squier  forth, 

Witherington  was  his  name. 
Who  said,  "  I  wold  not  have  it  told 

To  Henry  our  king  for  shame, 

That  ere  my  captaine  fought  on  foote. 

And  I  stood  looking  on, 
You  bee  two  erles,"  sayd  Witherington, 

"  And  I,  a  squier  alone  : 

He  doe  the  best  that  doe  I  may. 

While  I  have  power  to  stand : 
While  I  have  power  to  weeld  my  sword, 

lie  fight  with  hart  and  hand." 


'&' 


Our  English  archers  bent  their  bowes. 

Their  harts  were  good  and  trew; 
Att  the  first  flight  of  arrowes  sent. 

Full  four-score  Scots  they  slew. 

*  [Yet  bides  Earl  Douglas  on  the  bent, 
As  Chieftain  stout  and  good. 
As  valiant  Captain,  all  unmov'd 
The  shock  he  firmly  stood. 

His  host  he  parted  had  in  three, 

As  Leader  ware  and  try'd, 
And  soon  his  spearmen  on  their  foes 

Bare  down  on  every  side. 

Throughout  the  English  archery 

They  dealt  full  many  a  wound  : 
But  still  our  valiant  Englishmen 

All  firmly  kept  their  ground  : 

1  The  f  )ur  stanzas  here  inclosed  in  Brackets,  which  are  borrowed  chiefly  ft'om  the  ancient  Copy.  W* 
Ottered  to  the  Reader  instead  of  the  following  lines,  which  occur  in  the  Editor'a  folio  MS.  i- 

To  drive  the  deere  with  hound  and  home, 

Douglas  bade  on  the  bent ; 
Two  captaines  moved  with  mickle  might, 

Their  speres  to  shivers  went. 


Chap.  III.      MODERN  BALLAD   OF  CHEVY  CEASE,  65 

And  throwing  strait  their  bows  away, 

They  grasp'd  their  swords  so  bright : 
And  now  sharp  blows,  a  heavy  shower, 

On  shields  and  helmets  light] 

They  closed  full  fast  on  everye  side, 

Noe  slacknes  there  was  found; 
And  many  a  gallant  gentleman 

Lay  gasping  on  the  ground. 

O  Christ !  it  was  a  griefe  to  see, 

And  likewise  for  to  heare, 
The  cries  of  men  lying  in  their  gore. 

And  scattered  here  and  there. 

At  last  these  two  stout  erles  did  meet, 

Like  captaines  of  great  might : 
Like  lyons  wood,  they  layd  on  lode, 

And  made  a  cruell  fisht : 


*o 


They  fought  untill  they  both  did  sweat, 
With  swords  of  tempered  Steele ; 

Until  the  blood,  like  drops  of  rain, 
They  trickling  downe  did  feele. 

"  Yeeld  thee,  Lord  Percy,"  Douglas  sayd; 

*'In  faith  I  will  thee  bringe. 
Where  thou  shalt  high  advanced  bee 

By  James  our  Scottish  king  : 

Thy  ransome  I  will  freely  give, 

And  this  report  of  thee. 
Thou  art  the  most  couragious  knight, 

That  ever  I  did  see." 

"Noe,  Douglas,"  quoth  Erie  Percy  then, 

"Thy  profter  I  doe  scorne; 
I  will  not  yeelde  to  any  Scott, 

That  ever  yett  was  borne." 

With  that,  there  came  an  arrow  keene 

Out  of  an  English  bow, 
Which  struck  Erie  Douglas  to  the  heart, 

A  deepe  and  deadlye  blow : 

Who  never  spake  more  words  than  thesei 
*'  Fight  on,  my  merry  men  all ; 

For  why,  my  life  is  at  an  end ; 
Lord  Percy  sees  my  fall." 
5 


66  MODERN  BALLAD   OF  CHEVY  CHASE.     Chap.  IlL 

Then  leaving  lifte,  Erie  Percy  tooke 

The  dead  man  by  the  hand ; 
And  said,  "Erie  Douglas,  for  thy  life 

Wold  I  had  lost  my  land. 

O  Christ !  my  verry  hart  doth  bleed 

With  sorrow  for  thy  sake ; 
For  sure,  a  more  redoubted  knight 

Mischance  cold  never  take." 

A  knight  amongst  the  Scotts  there  was, 

Which  saw  Erie  Douglas  dye, 
Who  streight  in  wrath  did  vow  revenge 

Upon  the  Lord  Percye  : 

Sir  Hugh  Mountgomery  was  he  call'd. 

Who,  with  a  spere  most  bright, 
Well-mounted  on  a  gallant  steed, 

Ran  fiercely  through  the  fight; 

And  past  the  English  archers  all. 

Without  all  dread  or  feare; 
And  through  Earl  Percyes  body  then 

He  thrust  his  hatefull  spere ; 

With  such  a  vehement  force  and  might 

He  did  his  body  gore. 
The  staff  ran  through  the  other  side 

A  large  cloth-yard,  and  more. 

So  thus  did  both  these  nobles  dye. 

Whose  courage  none  could  staine  : 
An  English  archer  then  perceiv'd 

The  noble  erle  was  slaine ; 

He  had  a  bow  bent  in  his  hand. 

Made  of  a  trusty  tree ; 
An  arrow  of  a  cloth-yard  long 

Up  to  the  head  drew  hee : 

Against  Sir  Hugh  Mountgomerye, 

So  right  the  shaft  he  sett. 
The  grey  goose-winge  that  was  thereon, 

In  his  harts  bloode  was  wett. 

This  fight  did  last  from  breake  of  day, 

Till  setting  of  the  sun  ; 
For  when  they  rung  the  evening-bell, 

The  battel  scarce  was  done. 


Chap.  III.  MODERN  BALLAD   OF  CHEVY  CHASE,  67 

With  stout  Erie  Percy,  there  \ras  slaine, 

Sir  John  of  Egerton, 
Sir  Robert  Ratcliff,  and  Sir  John, 

Sir  James  that  bold  barron  : 

And  with  Sir  George  and  stout  Sir  James, 

Both  knights  of  good  account. 
Good  Sir  Ralph  Raby  there  was  slaine 

Whose  prowesse  did  surmount. 

For  Witherington  needs  must  I  wayle, 

As  one  in  doleful  dumpes ; 
For  when  his  leggs  were  smitten  off, 

He  fought  upon  his  stumpes. 

And  with  Erie  Douglas,  there  was  slaine 

Sir  Hugh  Mountgomerye, 
Sir  Charles  Murray,  that  from  the  field 

One  foote  wold  never  flee. 

Sir  Charles  Murray,  of  Ratcliff,  too, 

His  sisters  sonne  was  hee; 
Sir  David  Lamb,  so  well  esteem'd, 

Yet  saved  cold  not  bee. 

And  the  Lord  Maxwell  in  like  case 

Did  with  Erie  Douglas  dye  : 
Of  twenty  hundred  Scottish  speres. 

Scarce  fifty-five  did  flye. 

Of  fifteen  hundred  Englishmen, 

Went  home  but  fifty-three ; 
The  rest  were  slaine  in  Chevy-Chase, 

Under  the  greene  woode  tree. 

Next  day  did  many  widdowes  come, 

Their  husbands  to  bewayle ; 
They  washt  their  wounds  in  brinish  teares. 

But  all  wold  not  prevayle. 

Theyr  bodyes  bathed  in  purple  gore, 

They  bare  with  them  away : 
They  kist  them  dead  a  thousand  times, 

Ere  they  were  cladd  in  clay. 

The  newes  was  brought  to  Eddenborrow, 

Where  Scottlands  king  did  raigne, 
That  brave  Erie  Douglas  suddenlye 

Was  with  an  arrow  slaine : 


68  SIB  PATRICK  SPENS.  Chap.  UL 

•*  O,  heavy  newes,"  King  James  did  saj  , 

**  Scottland  may  witnesse  bee, 
I  have  not  any  captaine  more 

Of  such  account  as  hee." 

Like  tydings  to  King  Henry  came, 

Within  as  short  a  space. 
That  Percy  of  Northumberland 

Was  slaine  at  Chevy-Chese  : 

"  Now,  God  be  with  him,"  said  our  king, 

"  Sith  it  will  noe  better  bee ; 
I  trust  I  have,  within  my  realme. 

Five  hundred  as  good  as  hee : 

Yett  shall  not  Scotts,  nor  Scotland  say. 

But  I  will  vengeance  take  : 
I'll  be  revenged  on  them  all, 

For  brave  Erie  Percyes  sake." 

This  vow  full  well  the  king  perform'd 

After,  at  Humbledowne ; 
In  one  day,  fifty  knights  were  slayne, 

With  lords  of  great  renowne  : 

And  of  the  rest,  of  small  account. 

Did  many  thousands  dye  : 
Thus  endeth  the  hunting  of  Chevy-Chase, 

Made  by  the  Erie  Percy. 

God  save  our  king,  and  bless  this  land 

With  plentye,  joy,  and  peace; 
And  grant  henceforth,  that  foule  debate 

'Twixt  noblemen  may  cease. 


34,    Sir  Patrick  Spens, 

The  king  sits  in  Dunfermline  town, 
Drinking  the  blude-red  wine; 

**  O  whare  ^  will  I  get  a  skeely  ^  skipper. 
To  sail  this  new  ship  o'  mine !  "  — 

O  up  and  spake  an  eldern  knight, 
Sat  at  the  king's  right  knee,  — 

**  Sir  Patrick  Spens  is  the  best  sailor, 
That  ever  sail'd  the  sea." 

1  Where.  8  Skilful. 


Chap.  III.  SIR  PATRICK  SPENS,  69 

Our  king  has  written  a  braid  letter, 

And  seal'd  it  with  his  hand, 
And  sent  it  to  Sir  Patrick  Spens, 

Was  walking  on  the  strand. 

**  To  Norowaj,  to  Norowaj, 

To  Noroway  o'er  the  faem  ; 
The  king's  daughter  of  Noroway, 

'Tis  thou  maun  bring  her  hame."  — 

The  first  word  that  Sir  Patrick  read. 

Sae  loud  loud  laughed  he : 
The  neist  ^  word  that  Sir  Patrick  read, 

The  tear  blinded  his  e'e. 

"  O  wha  is  this  has  done  this  deed, 

And  tauld  the  king  o'  me, 
To  send  us  out,  at  this  time  of  the  year, 

To  sail  upon  the  sea.? 

Be  it  wind,  be  it  weet,  be  it  hail,  be  it  sleet, 

Our  ship  must  sail  the  faem ; 
The  king's  daughter  of  Noroway, 

'Tis  we  must  fetch  her  hame." 

They  hoysed  their  sails  on  Monenday  morn, 

Wi'  a'  the  speed  they  may ; 
They  ha'e  landed  in  Noroway, 

Upon  a  Wodensday. 

They  hadna  been  a  week,  a  week, 

In  Noroway,  but  twae, 
When  that  the  lords  o'  Noroway 

Began  aloud  to  say  — 

*•  Ye  Scottishmen  spend  a'  our  king's  goud. 

And  a'  our  queenis  fee."  — 
"  Ye  lie,  ye  lie,  ye  liars  loud ! 

Fu'  loud  I  hear  ye  lie ; 

For  I  ha'e  brought  as  much  white  monie. 

As  gane  my  men  and  me. 
And  I  ha'e  brought  a  half-fou*  of  gude  red  goud, 

Out  o'er  the  sea  wi'  me. 

Make  ready,  make  ready,  my  merry-men  a'  I 

Our  gude  ship  sails  the  morn."  — 
"  Now,  ever  alake,  my  master  dear, 

I  fear  a  deadly  storm  ! 

'   -  3  Next.  *  BusheL 


70  SIR  PATRICK  SPENS.  Chap.  IU. 

I  saw  the  new  moon,  late  jestreen, 

Wi'  the  auld  moon  in  her  arm; 
And,  if  we  gang  to  sea,  master, 

I  fear  we'll  come  to  harm." 

Thej  hadna  sail'd  a  league,  a  league, 

A  league  but  barely  three, 
When  the  lift  grew  dark,  and  the  wind  blew  loud, 

And  gurly  grew  the  sea. 

The  ankers  brak,  and  the  topmasts  lap, 

It  was  sic  a  deadly  storm  ; 
And  the  waves  cam  o'er  the  broken  ship. 

Till  a'  her  sides  were  torn. 

*'  O  where  will  I  get  a  gude  sailor. 

To  take  my  helm  in  hand. 
Til  I  get  up  to  the  tall  top-mast. 

To  see  if  I  can  spy  land?" 

"  O  here  am  I,  a  sailor  gude, 

To  take  the  helm  in  hand. 
Till  you  go  up  to  the  tall  top-mast; 

But  I  fear  you'll  ne'er  spy  land."  — 

He  hadna  gane  a  step,  a  step, 

A  step  but  barely  ane, 
When  a  boult  flew  out  of  our  goodly  ship, 

And  the  salt  sea  it  came  in. 

"  Gae,  fetch  a  web  o'  the  silken  claith. 

Another  o'  the  twine. 
And  wap  them  into  our  ship's  side. 

And  let  nae  the  sea  come  in." 

Tliey  fetch'd  a  web  o'  the  silken  claith, 

Another  o'  the  twine, 
And  they  wapp'd  them  round  that  gude  ship's  sidCj* 

But  still  the  sea  came  in. 

O  laith,  laith,  were  our  gude  Scots  lords 

To  weet^  their  cork-heel'd  shoon  !  ^ 
But  lang  or'  a'  the  play  was  play'd, 

They  wat  their  hats  aboon.® 

Any  mony  was  the  feather  bed, 

That  floated  on  the  faem  ; 
And  mony  was  the  gude  lord's  son, 

That  never  mair  cam  hame. 

•  To  wet  6  Shoes.  7  Before.  i  Ibofik 


Chap.  UI.  TEE   TWO   CORBIES.  71 

The  ladjes  wrang  their  fingers  white, 

The  maidens  tore  their  hair, 
A'  for  the  sake  of  their  true  loves,  — 

For  them  they'll  see  nae  mair. 

O  lang,  lang,  may  the  ladyes  sit, 

Wi'  their  fans  into  their  hand, 
Before  they  see  Sir  Patrick  Spens 

Come  sailing  to  the  strand! 

And  lang,  lang,  may  the  maidens  sit, 

With  their  goud  kaims  ^  in  their  hair, 
A'  waiting  for  their  ain  dear  loves! 

For  them  they'll  see  nae  mair. 

Half  owre,  half  owre  to  Aberdour, 

'Tis  fifty  fathoms  deep, 
And  there  lies  gude  Sir  Patrick  Spens, 

Wi'  the  Scots  lords  at  his  feet ! 

9  Combs. 


3S,    The  Two  Corbies. 

There  were  two  corbies  sat  on  a  tree, 

Large  and  black  as  black  might  be; 

And  one  the  other  gan  say. 

Where  shall  we  go  and  dine  to-day.? 

Shall  we  go  dine  by  the  wild  salt  sea.? 

Shall  we  go  dine  'neath  the  greenwood  tree? 

As  I  sat  on  the  deep  sea  sand, 

I  saw  a  fair  ship  nigh  at  land, 

I  waved  my  wings,  I  bent  my  beak, 

The  ship  sunk,  and  I  heard  a  shriek; 

There  they  lie,  one,  two,  and  three, 

I  shall  dine  by  the  wild  salt  sea. 

Come,  I  will  show  ye  a  sweeter  sight, 

A  lonesome  glen,  and  a  new-slain  knight ;    ■ 

His  blood  yet  on  the  grass  is  hot, 

His  sword  half-drawn,  his  shafts  unshot, 

And  no  one  kens  that  he  lies  there, 

But  his  hawk,  his  hound,  and  his  lady  fair. 

His  hound  is  to  the  hunting  gane, 
His  hawk  to  fetch  the  wild  fowl  hame, 


72  TEE   TWO   CORBIES.  Chap.  IU 

His  lady's  away  with  anotlier  mate, 
So  we  shall  make  our  dinner  sweet; 
Our  dinner's  sure,  our  feasting  free. 
Come,  and  dine  bj  the  greenwood  tree. 

Ye  shalt  sit  on  his  white  hause-bane,^ 
I  will  pick  out  his  bony  blue  een ; 
Ye'll  take  a  tress  of  his  yellow  hair, 
To  theak  yere  nest  when  it  grows  bare ; 
The  gowden  ^  down  on  his  young  chin 
Will  do  to  sewe  my  young  ones  in. 

O,  cauld  and  bare  will  his  bed  be. 
When  winter  storms  sing  in  the  tree; 
At  his  head  a  turf,  at  his  feet  a  stone, 
He  will  sleep  nor  hear  the  maiden's  moan; 
O'er  his  white  bones  the  birds  shall  fly, 
The  wild  deer  bound,  and  foxes  cry. 

\  Vti9  iieck-bone  —  a  phrase  for  the  neck.  2  Golden 


A.  D.  1530-1577.  QASCOIGNE,  78 


CHAPTER  IV. 

THE    ELIZABETHAN  POETS    (INCLUDING   THE    REIGN  OF 

JAMES    I.). 


S6*  George  Gascoigne.     1530-1577.     (Manual,  p.  71.) 

The  Vanity  of  the  Beautiful. 

They  course  the  glass,  and  let  it  take  no  rest; 
They  pass  and  spy  who  gazeth  on  their  face ; 
They  darkly  ask  whose  beauty  seemeth  best; 
They  hark  and  mark  who  marketh  most  their  grace; 
They  stay  their  steps,  and  stalk  a  stately  pace ; 
They  jealous  are  of  every  sight  they  see ; 
They  strive  to  seem,  but  never  care  to  be. 
if  *  *  *  *  * 

What  grudge  and  grief  our  joys  may  then  suppress, 
To  see  our  hairs,  which  yellow  were  as  gold, 
Now  grey  as  glass ;  to  feel  and  find  them  less ; 
To  scrape  the  bald  skull  which  was  wont  to  hold 
Our  lovely  locks  with  curling  sticks  controul'd; 
To  look  in  glass,  and  spy  Sir  Wrinkle's  chair 
Set  fast  on  fronts  which  erst  were  sleek  and  fair. 


37.  Thomas  Sackville,  Lord  Buckhurst.     (Manual, 

p.  72.) 

Allegorical  Personages  in  Hell. 

From  the  Induction  to  the  Mirrour  for  Magistrates. 

And  first  wfthin  the  porch  and  jaws  of  Hell 
Sat  deep  Remorse  of  Conscience,  all  besprent 
With  tears;  and  to  herself  oft  would  she  tell 
Her  wretchedness,  and  cursing  never  stent ' 

1  stopped. 


74  SACKVILLE.  Chap.  IV. 

To  sob  and  sigh ;  but  ever  thus  lament 
With  thoughtful  care,  as  she  that  all  in  vain 
Would  wear  and  waste  continually  in  pain. 

Her  eyes  unstedfast,  rolling  here  and  there, 

Whirl'd  on  each  place,  as  place  that  vengeance  brought. 

So  was  her  mind  continually  in  fear, 

Toss'd  and  tormented  by  the  tedious  thought 

Of  those  detested  crimes  which  she  had  wrought : 

With  dreadful  cheer  and  looks  thrown  to  the  sky, 

Wishing  for  death,  and  yet  she  could  not  die. 

Next  saw  we  Dread,  all  trembling  how  he  shook, 
With  foot  uncertain  proifer'd  here  and  there; 
Benumm'd  of  speech,  and  with  a  ghastly  look, 
Search'd  every  place,  all  pale  and  dead  for  fear; 
His  cap  upborn  with  staring  of  his  hair, 
Stoyn'd  ^  and  amazed  at  his  shade  for  dread, 
And  fearing  greater  dangers  than  was  need. 

And  next  within  the  entry  of  this  lake 

Sat  fell  Revenge,  gnashing  her  teeth  for  ire. 

Devising  means  how  she  may  vengeance  take, 

Never  in  rest  till  she  have  her  desire ; 

But  frets  within  so  far  forth  with  the  fire 

Of  wreaking  flames,  that  now  determines  she 

To  die  by  death,  or  veng'd  by  death  to  be. 

When  fell  Revenge,  with  bloody  foul  pretence, 
Had  shewed  herself,  as  next  in  order  set. 
With  trembling  limbs  we  softly  parted  thence. 
Till  in  our  eyes  another  sight  we  met. 
When  from  my  heart  a  sigh  forthwith  I  fet,^ 
Rewing,  alas  !  upon  the  woeful  plight 
Of  Misery,  that  next  appear'd  in  sight. 

His  face  was  lean  and  some-deal  pin'd  away> 
And  eke  his  handes  consumed  to  the  bone, 
But  what  his  bod}'  was  I  cannot  say; 
For  on  his  carcass  raiment  had  he  none, 
Save  clouts  and  patches,  pieced  one  by  one; 
With  staflfin  hand,  and  scrip  on  shoulders  cast. 
His  chief  defence  against  the  winters  blast. 


*i3' 


His  food,  for  most,  was  wild  fruits  of  the  tree; 
Unless  sometime  some  crumbs  fell  to  his  share. 
Which  in  his  wallet  long,  God  wot,  kept  he, 

%  A«to]usLi«<L  3  Fetched. 


A.  D.  1553-1599.  SPENSER.  75 

As  on  the  which  full  daintily  would  he  fare. 
His  drink  the  running  stream,  his  cup  the  bare 
Of  his  palm  closed,  his  bed  the  hard  cold  ground; 
To  this  poor  life  was  Misery  jbound. 


38,  Edmund  Spenser,  1553-1599-     (Manual,  pp.  73-7^-) 

From  the  Faery  Queen. 

Una  and  the  Lion.     Book  I.,  Canto  3. 

One  day,  nigh  wearie  of  the  yrkesome  way, 

From  her  unhastie  beast  she  did  alight; 

And  on  the  grasse  her  dainty  limbs  did  lay 

In  secrete  shadow,  far  from  all  mens  sight; 

From  her  fayre  head  her  fillet  she  undight,' 

And  layd  her  stole  aside  :   Her  angels  face, 

As  the  great  eye  of  heaven,  shyned  bright, 

And  make  a  sunshine  in  the  shady  place; 

Did  eyer  mortall  eye  behold  such  heavenly  grace? 

s 
It  fortuned,  out  of  the  thickest  wood 

"  A  ramping  lyon  rushed  suddeinly, 

Hunting  full  greedy  after  salvage  blood : 

Soone  as  the  royall  Virgin  he  did  spy, 

With  gaping  mouth  at  her  ran  greedily, 

To  have  attonce  devourd  her  tender  corse : 

But  to  the  pray  when  as  he  drew  more  ny. 

His  bloody  rage  aswaged  with  remorse, 

And,  with  the  sight  amazd,  forgat  his  furious  forse. 

Instead  thereof  he  kist  her  wearie  feet. 
And  lickt  her  lilly  hands  with  fawning  tong; 
As^  he  her  wronged  innocence  did  weet.^ 
O  how  can  beautie  maister  the  most  strong, 
And  simple  truth  subdue  avenging  wrong! 
Whose  yielded  pryde  and  proud  submission. 
Still  dreading  death,  when  she  had  marked  long, 
Her  hart  gan  melt  in  great  compassion ; 
And  drizling  teares  did  shed  for  pure  affection. 

"The  lyon,  lord  of  everie  beast  in  field," 
Qiioth  she,  "his  princely  puissance  doth  abate. 
And  mightie  proud  to  humble  weake  does  yield, 
Forgetfull  of  the  hungry  rage,  which  late 
Him  prickt,  in  pittie  of  my  sad  estate  :  — 
But  he,  my  lyon,  and  my  noble  lord, 

1  Uudight  •- took  off  3  As  —  as  if.  3  We«t  —  und«rstan<L 


76  SFjENSEB.  Cuap.  IV. 

How  does  he  find  in  cruell  hart  to  hate 
Her,  that  him  lov'd,  and  ever  most  adord 
As  the  god  of  my  life?  why  hath  he  me  abhord?" 

Redounding"*  tears  did  choke  th'  end  of  her  plaint, 
Which  softly  echoed  from  the  neighbour  wood ; 
And,  sad  to  see  her  sorrowfull  constraint, 
The  kingly  beast  upon  her  gazing  stood; 
With  pittie  calmd,  downe  fell  his  angry  mood. 
At  last,  in  close  hart  shutting  up  her  payne. 
Arose  the  Virgin  borne  of  heavenly  brood, 
And  to  her  snowy  palfrey  got  agaj^ne. 
To  seek  her  strayed  Champion  if  she  might  attayne. 

The  lyon  would  not  leave  her  desolate. 
But  with  her  went  along,  as  a  strong  gard 
Of  her  chast  person,  and  a  faythfull  mate 
Of  her  sad  troubles  and  misfortunes  hard  : 
Still,  when  she  slept,  he  kept  both  waich  and  ward 
And,  when  she  wakt,  he  wayted  diligent, 
With  humble  service  to  her  will  prepard  : 
From  her  fayre  eyes  he  took  commandement, 
\nd  ever  by  her  lookes  conceived  her  intent. 

4  Redounding  —  flowing. 


30 1    Prince  Arthur.     Book  I.,  Canto  7. 

At  last  she  chaunced  by  good  hap  to  meet 
A  goodly  Knight,  faire  marching  by  the  way,      ^ 
Together  with  his  Squyre,  arrayed  meet: 
His  glitterand  armour  shined  far  away. 
Like  glauncing  light  of  Phoebus  brightest  ray; 
From  top  to  toe  no  place  appeared  bare, 
That  deadly  dint  of  Steele  endanger  may: 
Athwart  his  brest  a  bauldrick  brave  he  ware. 
That  shind,  like  twinkling  stars,  with  stones  most  prelioua 
rare : 

And,  in  the  midst  thereof,  one  pretious  stone 
Of  wondrous  worth,  and  eke  of  wondrous  mights, 
Shapt  like  a  Ladies  head,  exceeding  shone, 
Like  Hesperus  emongst  the  lesser  lights. 
And  strove  for  to  amaze  the  weaker  sights  : 
Thereby  his  mortall  blade  full  comely  hong 
In  yvory  sheath,  ycarv'd  with  curious  slights,* 
Whose  hilts  were  burnisht  gold ;  and  handle  strong 
Of  mother  perle;  and  buckled  with  a  golden  tong. 

1  Sli${htS'    devices. 


A.  D.  1553-1599.  SPENSER.  77 

His  haughtie  helmet,  horrid  all  with  gold, 
Both  glorious  brightnesse  and  great  terrour  bredd  . 
For  all  the  crest  a  dragon  did  enfold 
With  greedie  pawes,  and  over  all  did  spredd 
His  golden  winges  ;  his  dreadliiU  hideous  hedd, 
Close  couched  on  tlie  bever,  seemd  to  throw 
From  flaming  mouth  bright  sparckles  fiery  redd, 
That  suddeine  horrour  to  faint  hartes  did  show; 
And  scaly  tayle  was  stretcht  adowne  his  back  full  low. 


40»    Belphcebe.     Book  II.,  Canto  3. 

Her  face  so  faire,  as  flesh  it  seemed  not. 
But  hevenly  pourtraict  of  bright  angels  hew, 
Cleare  as  the  skye,  withouten  blame  or  blot. 
Through  goodly  mixture  of  complexions  dew; 
And  in  her  cheekes  the  vermeill  red  did  shew 
Like  roses  in  a  bed  of  lillies  shed. 
The  which  ambrosiall  odours  from  them  threw, 
And  gazers  sence  with  double  pleasure  fed, 
Hable  to  heale  the  sicke  and  to  revive  the  ded. 

In  her  faire  eyes  two  living  lamps  did  flame, 
Kindled  above  at  th'  Hevenly  Makers  light, 
And  darted  fyrie  beames  out  of  the  same. 
So  passing  persant,'  and  so  wondrous  bright. 
That  quite  bereavd  the  rash  beholders  sight; 
In  them  the  blinded  god  his  lustful  fyre 
To  kindle  oft  assayd,  but  had  no  might; 
For,  with  dredd  maiestie  and  awfuU  yre 
She  broke  his  wanton  darts,  and  quenched  bace  desyre. 

Her  yvoire  forhead,  full  of  bountie  brave, 
Like  a  broad  table  did  itselfe  dispred, 
For  Love  his  loftie  triumphes  to  engrave, 
And  write  the  battailes  of  his  great  godhed  : 
All  good  and  honour  might  therein  be  red; 
For  there  their  dwelling  was.     And,  when  she  spake, 
Sweete  wordes,  like  dropping  honny,  she  did  shed; 
And  twixt  the  perles  and  rubins  ^  softly  brake 
A  silver  sound,  that  heavenly  inusicke  seemd  to  make. 

1  Persant— piercing.  2  Rubins  —  rubies. 

41.,    The  Care  of  Angels  over  Men.    Book  II.,  Canto  8. 

And  is  there  care  in  heaven  ?    And  is  there  love 
In  heavenly  spirits  to  these  creatures  bace. 
That  mav  compassion  of  their  evils  move? 


78  SPENSEB.  Chap.  IV. 

There  is  :  —  else  much  more  wretched  were  the  cace 
Of  men  then  beasts  :  But  O !  th'  exceeding  grace 
Of  Highest  God  that  loves  his  creatures  so, 
And  all  his  workes  with  mercy  doth  embrace, 
That  blessed  Angels  he  sends  to  and  fro, 
To  serve  to  wicked  man,  to  serve  his  wicked  foe  I 

How  oft  do  they  their  silver  bowers  leave 

To  come  to  succour  us  that  succour  want ! 

How  oft  do  they  with  golden  pineons  cleave 

The  flitting  ^  skyes,  like  flying  pursuivant. 

Against  fowle  feendes  to  ayd  us  militant! 

They  for  us  fight,  they  watch  -and  dewly  ward, 

And  their  bright  squadrons  round  about  us  plant; 

And  all  for  love  and  nothing  for  reward : 
O,  why  should  Hevenly  God  to  men  have  such  regard  I 

1  Yielding. 


42,    The  Seasons.     Book  VII.,  Canto  7. 

So  forth  issew'd  the  Seasons  of  the  yeare  : 

First,  lusty  Spring  all  dight'  in  leaves  of  flowres 
That  freshly  budded  and  new  bloosmes  did  beare, 
In  which  a  thousand  biris  had  built  their  bowres. 
That  sweetly  sung  to  call  forth  paramours ; 
And  in  his  hand  a  iavelin  he  did  beare, 
And  on  his  head  (as  fit  for  warlike  stoures  ^) 
A  guilt  ^  engraven  morion  "*  he  did  weare; 

That  as  some  did  him  love,  so  others  did  him  feare. 

Then  came  the  iolly  Sommer,  being  dight 
In  a  thin  silken  cassock  colored  greene, 
That  was  unlyned  all,  to  be  more  light : 
And  on  his  head  a  girlond  well  beseene 
He  wore,  from  which,  as  he  had  chauffed  ^  been, 
The  sweat  did  drop ;  and  in  his  hand  he  bore 
A  bowe  and  shaftes,  as  he  in  forrest  greene 
Had  hunted  late  the  libbard^  or  the  bore. 

And  now  would  bathe  his  limbes  with  labor  heated  soie. 

Then  came  the  Autumne  all  in  yellow  clad. 
As  though  he  ioyed  in  his  plentious  store, 
Laden  with  fruits  that  made  him  laugh,  full  glad 
That  he  had  banisht  hunger,  which  to-fore 
Had  by  the  belly  oft  him  pinched  sore : 

»  Adomed.  2  Encounters.  3  Gilded.  4  Ilclniet.  5  Chafed,  lieatcd.  6  Leopail 


A..  D.  1J54-1586.  STB  PHILIP  SYDNEY,  79 

Upon  his  head  a  wreath,  that  was  enrold 
With  ears  of  corne  of  every  sort,  he  bore; 
And  in  his  hand  a  sickle  he  did  holde, 
To  reape  the  ripened  fruits  tlie  which  the  earth  had  yold.' 

« 

Lastly,  came  Winter  cloathed  all  in  frize, 

Chattering  his  teeth  for  cold  that  did  him  chill ; 

Whilst  on  his  hoary  beard  his  breath  did  f  reese, 

And  the  dull  drops,  that  from  his  purpled  bill^ 

As  from  a  limbeck^  did  adown  distill : 

In  his  right  hand  a  tipped  staffe  he  held, 

With  which  his  feeble  steps  he  stayed  still; 

For  he  was  faint  with  cold,  and  weak  with  eld ;  '" 
That  scarce  his  loosed  limbes  he  able  was  to  weld.'' 

7  Yielded.  8  Nose.  9  Retort.  10  Old  age.  U  Wield,  more. 


43,    Sonnet  LXXXVIII. 

Like  as  the  culver,'  on  the  bared  bough, 

Sits  mourning  for  the  absence  of  her  mate, 

And  in  her  songs  sends  many  a  wishful  vow 

For  his  return  that  seems  to  linger  late; 

So  I  alone,  now  left  disconsolate. 

Mourn  to  myself  the  absence  of  my  love, 

And,  wand'ring  here  and  there,  all  desolate, 

Seek  with  my  plaints  to  match  that  mournful  dove  : 

Ne  joy  of  aught  that  under  heaven  doth  hove,  * 

Can  comfort  me  but  her  own  joyous  sight, 

Whose  sweet  aspect  both  God  and  man  can  move, 

In  her  unspotted  pleasures  to  delight. 

Dark  is  my  day,  whiles  her  fair  light  I  miss. 

And  dead  my  life,  that  wants  such  lively  bliss. 

1  Dove.  *  Hover,  or  stay. 

44.   Sir  Philip  Sydney,     i 554-1 586.     (Manual,  p.  "j^.) 

For  Extracts  from  his  Prose  "Works,  see  next  Chapter. 

Sonnet  to  Sleep. 

Come,  sleep,  O  sleep,  the  certain  knot  of  peace, 
The  baiting-place  of  wit,  the  balm  of  woe. 
The  poor  man's  wealth,  the  prisoner's  release, 
Th'  indifferent  judge  between  .the  high  and  low! 
With  shield  of  proof,  shield  me  from  out  the  pxease 
Of  those  fierce  darts  Despair  at  me  doth  throw: 


80  SIB   WALTER  RALEIGH.  Chap.  IV^ 

0  make  me  in  those  civil  wars  to  cease ! 

1  will  good  tribute  pay  if  thou  do  so. 

Take  thou  of  me  smooth  pillows,  sweetest  bed 
A  chamber  deaf  to  noise,  and  blind  to  light; 
A  rosy  garland,  and  a  weary  head ; 
And  if  these  things,  as  being  thine  by  right, 
Move  not  thy  heavy  grace,  thou  shalt  in  me, 
Livelier  than  elsewhere  Stella's  image  see. 


Sir  Walter  Raleigh,     i 553-161 8. 

For  Extracts  from  his  Prose  "Works,  see  next  Chapter. 

4:3,  A  Passionate  Shepherd  to  his  Love. 
By  Christopher  Marlowe. 

Come  live  with  me  and  be  my  love, 
And  we  will  all  the  pleasures  prove 
That  grove  or  valley,  hill  or  field, 
Or  wood  and  steepy  mountain  yield. 

Where  we  will  sit  on  rising  rocks. 
And  see  the  shepherds  feed  their  flocks 
By  shallow  rivers,  to  whose  falls 
Melodious  birds  sing  madrigals. 

Pleased  will  I  make  thee  beds  of  roses. 
And  twine  a  thousand  fragrant  posies ; 
A  cap  of  flowers  and  rural  kirtle, 
Embroider'd  all  with  leaves  of  myrtle. 

A  jaunty  gown  of  finest  wool, 
Which  from  our  pretty  lambs  we  pull ; 
And  shoes  lined  choicely  for  the  cold. 
With  buckles  of  the  purest  gold : 

A  belt  of  straw  and  ivy  buds, 
With  coral  clasps  and  amber  studs ; 
If  these,  these  pleasures  can  thee  move. 
Come  live  with  me,  and  be  my  love. 


The  Nymph's  Reply  to  the  Passionate  Shepherd. 

By  Sir  Walter  Raleigh. 

If  all  the  world  and  Love  were  young, 
And  truth  on  ev-ery  Shepherd's  tongue. 
These  pleasures  might  my  passion  move 
To  live  with  thee,  and  be  thy  love. 


A.  D.  1552-1618.  SIB    WALTER  RALEIGH,  81 

But  fading  flowers  in  every  field, 
To  winter  floods  their  treasures  yield; 
A  honey'd  tongue  —  a  heart  of  gall, 
Is  Fancy's  spring,  but  Sorrow's  fall. 

Thy  gown,  thy  shoes,  thy  beds  of  roses, 
Thy  cap,  thy  kirtle,  and  thy  posies. 
Are  all  soon  wither'd,  broke,  forgotten, 
In  Folly  ripe,  in  Reason  rotten. 

Thy  belt  of  straw,  and  ivy-buds. 
Thy  coral  clasps,  and  amber  studs, 
Can  me  with  no  enticements  move. 
To  live  with  thee,  and  be  thy  love. 

But  could  Youth  last,  could  Love  still  breed; 
Had  joj-^s  no  date,  had  Age  no  need ; 
Then  those  delights  my  mind  might  move 
To  live  with  thee,  and  be  thy  love. 


The  Soul's  Errand. 

This  beautiful  poem  appeared  anonymously  in  »'  Davison's  Poetical   Rhapsody,"  ia 
1608.    It  has  been  ascribed  to  Sir  Walter  Raleigh  by  many  able  critics. 

Go,  Soul,  the  Body's  guest. 

Upon  a  thankless  errand; 
Fear  not  to  touch  the  best; 

The  truth  shall  be  thy  warrant. 
Go,  since  I  needs  must  die, 
And  give  them  all  the  lie. 

Go,  tell  the  Court  it  glows, 

And  shines  like  painted  wood; 
Go,  tell  the  Church  it  shows 

What's  good,  but  does  no  good. 
If  Court  and  Church  reply, 
Give  Court  and  Church  the  lie. 

Tell  Potentates,  they  live 

Acting,  but  oh!  their  actions 
Not  loved,  unless  they  give; 

Nor  strong,  but  by  their  factions. 
If  Potentates  reply. 
Give  Potentates  the  lie. 

Tell  men  of  high  condition, 
That  rule  afl"airs  of  state, 
6 


82  SIE   WALTER  RALEIGH,  Chap.  IV. 

Their  purpose  is  ambition ; 
Their  practice  only  hate. 
And  if  thej  do  reply, 
Then  give  them  all  the  lie. 

Tell  those  that  brave  it  most, 
They  beg  for  more  by  spending, 

Who,  in  their  greatest  cost, 

Seek  nothing  but  commending. 

And  if  they  make  reply, 

Spare  not  to  give  the  lie. 

Tell  Zeal  it  lacks  devotion  ; 

Tell  Love  it  is  but  lust; 
Tell  Time  it  is  but  motion ; 

Tell  Flesh  it  is  but  dust : 
And  wish  them  not  reply, 
For  thou  must  give  the  lie. 

Tell  Age  it  daily  wasteth ; 

Tell  Honor  how  it  alters ; 
Tell  Beauty  that  it  blasteth ; 

Tell  Favor  that  she  falters  : 
And  as  they  do  reply, 
Give  every  one  the  lie. 

Tell  Wit  how  much  it  wrangles 

In  fickle  points  of  niceness; 
Tell  Wisdom  she  entangles 

Herself  in  over-wiseness : 
And  if  they  do  reply. 
Then  give  them  both  the  lie. 

Tell  Physic  of  her  boldness ; 

Tell  Skill  it  is  pretension; 
Tell  Charity  of  coldness ; 

Tell  Law  it  is  contention  : 
And  if  they  yield  reply. 
Then  give  them  still  the  lie. 

Tell  Fortune  of  h^r  blindness; 

Tell  Nature  of  decay ; 
Tell  Friendship  of  unkindness; 

Tell  Justice  of  delay : 
And  if  they  do  reply. 
Then  give  them  all  the  lie. 

Tell  Arts  they  have  no  soundnes*;, 
But  vary  by  esteeming; 


A.  I).  1562-1619.  BAMUEL    DANIEL.  83 

Tell  Schools  they  lack  profoundness. 

And  stand  too  much  on  seeming. 
If  Arts  and  Schools  reply, 
Give  Arts  and  Schools  the  lie. 

Tell  Faith  it's  fled  the  city ; 

Tell  how  the  Country  erreth; 
Tell  Manhood,  shakes  off  pity; 

Tell  Virtue,  least  preferreth. 
And  if  they  do  reply, 
Spare  not  to  give  the  lie. 

JSo,  when  thou  hast,  as  I 
Commanded  thee,  done  blabbing; 

Although  to  give  the  lie 

Deserves  no  less  than  stabbing; 

Yet  stab  at  thee  who  will, 

No  stab  the  Soul  can  kilL 


46.  Samuel  Daniel.     1662-1619.     (Manual,  p.  So.> 

Richard  II.  on  the  Morning  before  his  Murdek. 

From  the  Third  Book  of  the  Civil  Wars. 

The  morning  of  that  day  which  was  his  last 

After  a  weary  rest,  rising  to  pain. 

Out  at  a  little  grate  his  eyes  he  cast 

Upon  those  bordering  hills  and  open  plain, 

Wnere  others'  liberty  makes  him  complain 

The  more  his  own,  and  grieves  his  soul  the  more, 

Conferring  '  captive  crowns  with  freedom  poor. 

O  happy  man,  saith  he,  that  lo  I  see, 
Grazitg  his  cattle  in  those  pleasant  fields, 
If  he  but  knew  his  good.     How  blessed  he 
That  feels  not  what  affliction  greatness  yields ! 
Other  than  what  he  is  he  would  not  be. 
Nor  change  his  state  with  him  that  sceptre  wields. 
Thine,  thine  is  that  true  life  :  that  is  to  live 
To  rest  secure,  and  not  rise  up  to  grieve. 

Thou  sitt'st  at  home  safe  by  thy  quiet  fire, 
And  hear'st  of  others'  harms,  but  fearest  none, 
And  there  thou  tell'st  of  kings,  and  who  aspire, 
Who  fall,  who  rise,  who  triumph,  who  do  moan. 

1  Comparing. 


84  MICHAEL  DRAYTON.  Chap.  IV. 

Perhaps  thou  talk'st  of  me,  and  dost  inquire 
Of  my  restraint,  why  here  I  live  alone, 
And  pitiest  this  mj  miserable  fall ; 
For  pity  must  have  part  —  envy  not  all. 

Thrice  happy  you  that  look  as  from  the  shore, 

And  have  no  venture  in  the  wreck  you  see; 

No  interest,  no  occasion  to  deplore 

Other  men's  travels,  v^^hile  yourselves  sit  free. 

How  much  doth  your  sweet  rest  make  us  the  more 

To  see  our  misery  and  what  we  be  : 

Whose  blinded  greatness,  ever  in  turmoil, 

Still  seeking  happy  life,  makes  life  a  toil. 


^Michael  Drayton.     1563-1631.     (Manual,  pp.  80, 81.) 

From  the  Nymphidia. 

4:7 •       PiGWIGGEN    ArMING. 

And  quickly  arms  him  for  the  field, 
A  little  cockle-shell  his  shield. 
Which  he  could  very  bravely  wield. 

Yet  could  it  not  be  pierced  : 
His  spear  a  bent  both  stiff  and  strong, 
And  well  near  of  two  inches  long : 
The  pile  was  of  a  horse-fly's  tongue. 

Whose  sharpness  nought  reversed. 

And  puts  him  on  a  coat  of  mail, 

Which  was  of  a  fish's  scale. 

That  when  his  foe  should  him  assail, 

No  point  should  be  prevailing. 
His  rapier  was  a  hornet's  sting. 
It  was  a  very  dangerous  thing; 
For  if  he  chanc'd  to  hurt  the  king, 

It  would  be  long  in  healing. 

His  helmet  was  a  beetle's  head, 
Most  horrible  and  full  of.  dread. 
That  able  was  to  strike  one  dead, 

Yet  it  did  well  become  him  : 
And  for  a  plume,  a  horse's  hair. 
Which  being  tossed  by  the  air, 
Had  force  to  strike  his  foe  with  fear, 

And  turn  his  weapon  from  him. 


A.  D.  1570-1626.  SIB  JOHN  DAVIE S.  85 

Himself  he  on  an  earwig  set, 

Yet  scarce  he  on  his  back  could  get, 

So  oft  and  high  he  did  curvet. 

Ere  he  himself  could  settle  : 
He  made  him  turn,  and  stop,  and  l;ounc-. 
To  gallop,  and  to  trot  the  round, 
He  scarce  could  stand  on  any  ground, 

He  was  so  full  of  mettle. 


48 •     From  the  Poly-olbion.  —  Song  XIII. 

When  Phoebus  lifts  his  head  out  of  the  winter's  wave, 
No  sooner  doth  the  earth  her  flowery  bosom  brave. 
At  such  time  as  the  year  brings  on  the  pleasant  spring, 
But  hunts-up,  to  the  morn,  the  feath'red  sylvans  sing: 
And  in  the  lower  grove,  as  on  the  rising  knoll. 
Upon  the  highest  spray  of  every  mounting  pole, 
Those  quiristers  are  percht  with  many  a  speckled  breast. 
Then  from  her  burnisht  gate  the  goodly  glitt'ring  east 
Gilds  every  lofty  top,  which  late  the  humorous  night 
Bespangled  had  with  pearl,  to  please  the  morning's  sight: 
On  which  the  mirthful  quires,  with  their  clear  open  throats, 
Unto  the  joyful  morn  so  strain  their  warbling  notes. 
That  hills  and  vallies  ring,  and  even  the  echoing  air 
Seems  all  compos'd  of  sounds,  about  them  everywhere. 


4:9»   Sir  John  Davies.     1570-1626.     (Manual,  p.  81.; 

From  the  Nosce  Teipsum. 

As  spiders,  touch'd,  seek  their  web's  inmost  part; 
As  bees,  in  storms,  back  to  their  hives  return; 
As  blood  in  danger  gathers  to  the  heart; 
As  men  seek  towns  when  foes  the  country  burn  : 

If  aught  can  teach  us  aught,  affliction's  looks 
(Making  us  pry  into  ourselves  so  near). 
Teach  us  to  know  ourselves  beyond  all  books, 
Or  all  the  learned  schools  that  ever  were. 

She  within  lists  my  ranging  mind  hath  brought, 
That  now  beyond  myself  I  will  not  go  : 
Myself  am  centre  of  my  circling  thought : 
Only  myself  I  study,  learn,  and  know. 


86  JOHN  DONNE,  Chap.  IV. 

I  know  my  body's  of  so  frail  a  kind, 
As  force  without,  fevers  within  can  kill ; 
I  know  the  heavenly  nature  of  my  mind, 
But  'tis  corrupted  both  in  wit  and  will. 

I  know  my  soul  hath  power  to  know  all  things, 
Yet  is  she  blind  and  ignorant  in  all ; 
I  know  I'm  one  of  nature's  little  kings. 
Yet  to  the  least  and  vilest  things  am  thrall. 

I  know  my  life's  a  pain,  and  but  a  span ; 
I  know  my  sense  is  mock'd  in  every  thing : 
And,  to  conclude,  I  know  myself  a  man, 
Which  is  a  proud  and  yet  a  wretched  thing. 


50.   John  Donne.     1573-1631.     (Manual,  p.  82.) 

From  his  Elegies. 

Language,  thou  art  too  narrow  and  too  weak 

To  ease  us  now;  great  sorrows  cannot  speak. 

If  we  could  sigh  our  accents,  and  weep  words. 

Grief  wears,  and  lessens,  that  tears  breath  affords. 

Sad  hearts,  the  less  they  seem,  the  more  they  are; 

So  guiltiest  men  stand  mutest  at  the  bar; 

Not  that  they  know  not,  feel  not  their  estate. 

But  extreme  sense  hath  made  them  desperate. 

Sorrow !  to  whom  we  owe  all  that  we  be, 

Tyrant  in  the  fifth  and  greatest  monarchy, 

Was't  that  she  did  possess  all  hearts  before 

Thou  hast  killed  her,  to  make  thy  empire  more? 

Knew'st  thou  some  would,  that  knew  her  not,  lament, 

As  in  a  deluge  perish  the  innocent.'' 

Was't  not  enough  to  have  that  palace  won. 

But  thou  must  raze  it  too,  that  was  undone? 

Had'st  thou  stay'd  there,  and  looked  out  at  her  eyes, 

All  had  adored  thee,  that  now  from  thee  flies ; 

For  they  let  out  more  light  than  they  took  in ; 

They  told  not  when,  but  did  the  day  begin. 

She  was  too  sapphirine  and  clear  for  thee ; 

Clay,  flint,  and  jet  now  thy  fit  dwellings  be. 

Alas,  she  was  too  pure,  but  not  too  weak; 

Whoe'er  saw  crystal  ordnance  but  would  break? 

And,  if  we  be  thy  conquest,  by  her  fall 

Thou  hast  lost  thy  end ;  in  her  we  perish  all : 

Or,  if  we  live,  we  live  but  to  rebel, 

That  know  her  better  now,  who  knew  her  well. 


A.  D.  1574-1656.  BISHOP  HALL.  87 

51,    Bishop  Hall.     1574-1656.     (Manual,  p.  83.) 

From  the  Satires. 

Seest  thou  how  gaily  my  young  master  goes, 

Vaunting  himself  upon  his  rising  toes; 

And  pranks  his  hand  upon  his  dagger's  side; 

And  picks  his  glutted  teeth  since  late  noon-tide? 

'Tis  Ruffio  :  Trow'st  thou  where  he  din'd  to-day? 

In  sooth  I  saw  him  sit  with  Duke  Humfray.^ 

Many  good  welcomes,  and  much  gratis  cheer, 

Keeps  he  for  every  straggling  cavalier. 

And  open  house,  haunted  with  great  resort ; 

Long  service  mixt  with  musical  disport. 

Many  fair  yonker  with  a  feather' d  crest, 

Chooses  much  rather  be  his  shot-free  guest, 

To  fare  so  freely  with  so  little  cost, 

Than  stake  his  twelvepence  to  a  meaner  host. 

Hadst  thou  not  told  me,  I  should  surely  say 

He  touch'd  no  meat  of  all  this  live-long  day, 

For  sure  methoughtj  yet  that  was  but  a  guess, 

llis  eyes  seem'd  sunk  for  very  hollowness, 

But  could  he  have  (as  I  did  it  mistake) 

So  little  in  his  purse,  so  much  upon  his  back? 

So  nothing  in  his  inaw?  yet  seemeth  by  his  belt. 

That  his  gaunt  gut  no  too  much  stuffing  felt. 

Seest  thou  how  side  it  hangs  beneath  his  hip? 

Hunger  and  heavy  iron  makes  girdles  slip. 

Yet  for  all  that,  how  stiffly  struts  he  by. 

All  trapped  in  the  new-found  bravery. 

The  nuns  of  new-won  Calais  his  bonnet  lent, 

In  lieu  of  their  so  kind  a  conquerment. 

What  needed  he  fetch  that  from  farthest  Spain, 

His  grandame  could  have  lent  with  lesser  pain? 

Though  he  perhaps  ne'er  pass'd  the  English  shore. 

Yet  fain  would  counted  be  a  conqueror. 

His  hair,  French-like,  stares  on  his  frighted  head. 

One  lock  amazon-like  dishevelled. 

As  if  he  meant  to  wear  a  native  cord. 

If  chance  his  fates  should  him  that  bane  afford. 

All  British  bare  upon  the  bristled  skin. 

Close  notched  is  his  beard  both  lip  and  chin; 

His  linen  collar  labyrinthian  set, 

1  The  phrase  of  dining  with  Duke  Iliiniphry  arose  from  St.  Paul's  being  the  general  resort  of  th< 
loungers  of  those  days,  many  of  wliom,  like  Hall's  gallant,  were  glad  to  beguile  the  thoughts  of  dinuei 
n-ith  a  walk  in  the  middle  aisle,  where  there  was  a  tomb,  by  mistake  supposed  to  b«  t'lat  of  Bomphry, 
Duke  of  Gloucester. 


88  BOBERT  SOUTHWELL,  Chap.  IV. 

Whose  thousand  double  turnings  never  met : 
His  sleeves  half  hid  with  elbow  pinionings, 
As  if  he  meant  to  fly  with  linen  wings. 
But  when  I  look,  and  cast  mine  eyes  below, 
What  monster  meets  mine  eyes  in  human  shew? 
So  slender  waist  with  such  an  abbot's  loin, 
Did  never  sober  nature  sure  conjoin. 
Lik'st  a  straw  scare-crow  in  the  new-sown  field, 
Rear'd  on  some  stick,  the  tender  corn  to  shield. 
Or  if  that  semblance  suit  not  every  deal, 
Like  a  broad  shake-fork  with  a  slender  steel. 
****** 


S2»  Robert  Southwell.     1560-1595.     (Manual,  p.  85.) 

Times  go  by  Turns. 

The  loppfed  tree  in  time  may  grow  again, 

Most  naked  plants  renew  both  fruit  and  flower; 

The  sorriest  wight  may  find  release  of  pain. 

The  driest  soil  suck  in  some  moistening  shower: 

Time  goes  by  turns,  and  chances  change  by  course, 

From  foul  to  fair,  from  better  hap  to  worse. 

The  sea  of  fortune  doth  not  ever  flow. 
She  draws  her  favors  to  the  lowest  ebb  : 

Her  tides  have  equal  times  to  come  and  go ; 

Her  loom  doth  weave  the  fine  and  coarsest  web . 

No  joy  so  great  but  runneth  to  an  end, 

No  hap  so  hard  but  may  in  fine  amend. 

Not  always  fall  of  leaf,  nor  ever  spring ; 

Not  endless  night,  yet  not  eternal  day : 
The  saddest  birds  a  season  find  to  sing, 

The  roughest  storm  a  calm  may  soon  allay. 
Thus,  with  succeeding  turns,  God  tempereth  all, 
That  man  may  hope  to  rise,  yet  fear  to  fall. 

A  chance  may  win  that  by  mischance  was  lost; 

That  net  that  holds  no  great,  takes  little  fish ; 
In  some  things  all,  in  all  things  none  are  cross'd; 

Few  all  they  need,  but  none  have  all  they  wish. 
Unmingled  joys  here  to  no  man  befall ; 
Who  least,  hath  some ;  who  most,  hath  never  all. 


A.  D.  1 585-1649.         FLE  TCEER.  —  DR  UMMOND.  89 

53*    Giles  Fletcher.     (Manual,  p.  84.) 

From  Christ's  Victory  in  Heaven. 

Justice  Addressing  the  Creator. 

Upon  two  stony  tables,  spread  before  her, 

She  leant  her  bosom,  more  than  stony  hard; 

There  slept  th'  impartial  judge  and  strict  restorer 

Of  wrong  or  right,  with  pain  or  with  reward; 

There  hung  the  score  of  all  our  debts  —  the  card 

Where  good,  and  bad,  and  life,  and  death,  were  painted : 

Was  never  heart  of  mortal  so  untainted. 

But,  when  that  scroll  was  read,  with  thousand  terrors  fainted. 

Witness  the  thunder  that  Mount  Sinai  heard. 

When  all  the  hill  with  fiery  clouds  did  flame, 

And  wand'ring  Israel,  with  the  sight  afear'd, 

Blinded  with  seeing,  durst  not  touch  the  same, 

But  like  a  wood  of  shaking  leaves  became. 

On  this  dead  Justice,  she,  the  living  law. 

Bowing  herself  with  a  majestic  awe, 

All  heaven,  to  hear  her  speech,  did  into  silence  draw. 


54*  William  Drummond.     1585-1649.     (Manual,  p.  87.) 

On  Sleep. 

Sleep,  Silence'  child,  sweet  father  of  soft  rest, 

Prince,  whose  approach  peace  to  all  mortals  brings, 
Indifferent  host  to  shepherds  and  to  kings, 

Sole  comforter  of  minds  with  grief  oppress'd; 
Lo,  by  thy  charming  rod,  all  breathing  things  . 

Lie  slumbering,  with  forgetfulness  possess'd. 
And  yet  o'er  me  to  spread  thy  drowsy  wings 

T^iou  spar'st,  alas!  who  cannot  be  thy  guest. 
Since  I  am  thine,  O  come,  but  with  that  face 

To  inward  light,  which  thou  art  wont  to  show, 

With  feigned  solace  ease  a  true-felt  woe ; 
Or  if,  deaf  god,  thou  do  deny  that  grace, 

Come  as  thou  wilt,  and  what  thou  wilt  bequeath; 

I  1  Dng  to  kiss  the  image  of  my  death. 


90  SIE  PHILIP  SYDNEY.  Chap.  V. 


CHAPTER    V. 

THE     NEW     PHILOSOPHY     AND      PROSE     LITERATURE     IN     THE 
REIGNS    OF    ELIZABETH   AND  JAMES    I. 


35,  Sir  Philip  Sydney.     1554-1586.     (Manual,  p   78.) 

(For  his  Poetry,  see  page  79.) 
From  the  Defence  of  Poesy. 

In  Praise  of  Poetry. 

Now  therein  —  (that  is  to  say,  the  power  of  at  once  teaching  and 
enticing  to  do  well)  —  now  therein,  of  all  sciences  —  I  speak  still  of 
human  and  according  to  human  conceit — is  our  poet  the  monarch. 
For  he  doth  not  only  show  the  way,  but  giveth  so  sweet  a  prospect 
into  the  way,  as  will  entice  any  man  to  enter  into  it.     Nay,  he  doth, 
as  if  your  journey  should  lie  through  a  fair  vineyard,  at  the  very  first 
give  you  a  cluster  of  grapes,  that,  full  of  that  taste,  you  may  long  to 
pass  further.     He  beginneth  not  with  obscure  definitions,  which  must 
blur  the  margent  with   interpretations,   and   load  the    memory   with 
doubtfulness;  but  he  cometh  to  you  with  words  set  in  delightful  pro- 
portion, either  accompanied  with,  or  prepared  for,  the  well-enchanting 
skill  of  music ;  and  with  a  tale,  forsooth,  he  cometh  unto  you  with  a 
tale  which  holdeth  children  from  play,  and  old  men  from  the  chimney- 
corner;  and  pretending  no  more,  doth  intend  the  winning  of  the  mind 
from,  wickedness  to  virtue,  even  as  the  child  is  often  brought  to  take 
most  wholesome  things,  by  hiding  them  in  such  other  as  have  a  pleas- 
ant taste.     For  even  those  hard-hearted  evil  men,  who  think  virtue  a 
school  name,  and  know  no  other  good  but  indulgere  genio^  and  there- 
fore despise  the  austere  admonitions  of  the  philosopher,  and  feel  not 
the  inward  reason  they  stand  upon,  j^et  will  be  content  to  be  delighted  ; 
which  is  all  the  good-fellow  poet  seems  to  promise ;  and  so  steal  to 
see  the  form  of  goodness  —  which,   seen,   they  cannot  but  love   ere 
themselves  be  aware,  as  if  they  had  taken  a  medicine  of  cherries.     By 
these,  therefore,  examples  and  reasons,  I  think  it  maybe  manifest  that 
the  poet,  with  that  same  hand  of  delight,  doth  draw  the  mind  more 
effectually  than  any  other  art  doth.     And  so  a  conclusion  not  unfitly 
ensues,  that  as  virtue  is  the  most  excellent  resting-place  for  all  worldly 
learning  to  make  an  end  of,   so  poetry,  being  the  most  famili  ir  to 


A.  D.  1552-1618.        SIE   WALTER  RALEIGH.  &l 

teach  it,  and  most  princely  to  move  towards  it,  in  the  most  excellent 
work  is  the  most  excellent  workman. 

Since,  then,  poetry  is  of  all  human  learning  the  most  ancient,  and 
of  most  f^.therly  antiquity,  as  from  whence  other  learnings  have  taken 
their  beginnings;  —  Since  it  is  so  universal  that  no  learned  nation 
doth  despise  it,  no  barbarous  nation  is  without  it;  —  Since  both  Ro- 
man and  Greek  gave  such  divine  names  unto  it,  the  one  of  prophesy- 
ing, the  other  of  making;  and  that,  indeed,  that  name  of  making  is 
fit  for  it,  considering  that  whereas  all  other  arts  retain  themselves 
within  their  subject,  and  receive,  as  it  were,  their  being  from  it,  — 
the  poet,  only,  bringeth  his  own  stuff,  and  doth  not  learn  a  conceit 
out  of  the  matter,  but  maketh  matter  for  a  conceit;  —  Since,  neither 
his  description  nor  end  containing  any  evil,  the  thing  described  can- 
not be  evil; —  Since  his  effects  be  so  good  as  to  teach  goodness  and 
delight  the  learners  of  it;  —  Since  therein  (namely,  in  moral  doctrine, 
the  chief  of  all  knowledge)  he  doth  not  only  far  pass  the  historian, 
but,  for  instructing,  is  well  nigh  comparable  to  the  philosopher,  and 
for  moving,  leaveth  him  behind;  —  Since  the  Holy  Scripture  (wherein 
there  is  no  uncleanness)  hath  whole  parts  in  it  poetical,  and  that  even 
our  Saviour  Christ  vouchsafed  to  use  the  flowers  of  it;  —  Since  all  its 
kinds  are  not  only  in  their  united  forms,  but  in  their  severed  dissec- 
tions fully  commendable:  —  I  think  —  (^ajid  I  thitik  I  thhik  rightly)  — 
the  laurel  crown  appointed  for  triumphant  captains,  doth  worthily,  of 
all  other  learnings,  honor  the  poet's  triumph. 


50*  Sir  Walter  Raleigh.    1552-1618.     (Manual,  p.  89.) 

(For  bis  Poetry,  see  page  80.) 
From  the  History  of  the  World. 

The  Folly  of  Ambition  and  Power  of  Death. 

If  we  seek  a  reason  of  the  succession  and  continuance  of  boundless 
ambition  in  mortal  men,  we  may  add,  that  the  kings  and  princes  of 
the  world  have  always  laid  before  them  the  actions,  but  not  the  ends 
of  those  great  ones  which  preceded  them.  They  are  alwaj-s  trans- 
ported with  the  glorj'  of  the  one,  but  they  never  mind  the  misery  of 
the  other,  till  they  find  the  experience  in  themselves.  They  neglect 
the  advice  of  God  while  they  enjoy  life,  or  hope  it,  but  they  follow  the 
counsel  of  death  upon  his  first  approach.  It  is  he  that  puts  into  man 
all  the  wisdom  of  the  world  without  speaking  a  word,  which  God, 
with  all  the  words  of  his  law,  promises,  or  threats,  doth  not  infuse. 
Death,  whicK  hateth  and  destroj^eth  man,  is  believed;  God,  which 
hath  made  him  and  loves  him,  is  always  deferred.  "I  have  consid- 
ered," saith  Solomon,  "  all  the  works  that  are  under  the  sun,  and, 
behold,  all  is  vanity  and  vexation  of  spirit;  "  but  who  believes  it,  till 
death  tells  it  us?    It  was  death,  which,  opening  the  conscience  of 


&2  RICHARD   HOOKER.  Chap.  V 

Charles  V.,  made  him  enjoin  his  son  Philip  to  restore  Navarre,  and 
King  Francis  I.  of  France  to  command  that  justice  should  be  done 
upon  the  murderers  of  the  Protestants  in  Merindol  and  Cabrieres, 
which  till  then  he  neglected.  It  is  therefore  death  alone  that  can 
suddenly  make  man  to  know  himself.  He  tells  the  proud  and  insolent 
that  they  are  but  abjects,  and  humbles  them  at  the  instant,  makes 
them  cry,  complain,  and  repent,  yea,  even  to  hate  their  forepassed 
happiness.  He  takes  the  account  of  the  rich,  and  proves  him  a  beg- 
gar, a  naked  beggar,  which  hath  interest  in  nothing  but  in  the  gravel 
that  fills  his  mouth.  He  holds  a  glass  before  the  eyes  of  the  most 
beautiful,  and  makes  them  see  therein  their  deformity  and  rottenness, 
and  they  acknowledge  it. 

O  eloquent,  just,  and  mighty  death !  whom  none  could  advise,  thou 
hast  persuaded ;  what  none  could  advise,  thou  hast  persuaded;  what 
none  hath  dared,  thou  hast  done;  and  whom  all  the  world  hath  flat- 
tered, thou  only  hast  cast  out  of  the  world  and  despised ;  thou  hast 
drawn  together  all  the  far-stretched  greatness,  all  the  pride,  cruelty, 
and  ambition  of  man,  and  covered  it  all  over  with  these  two  narrow 
words,  htc  Jacet  !  ^^"'f-^-nji.  <>JU(A  .  - 


57.   Richard  Hooker.     1553-1598'     (Manual,  p.  91.) 

From  the  Ecclesiastical  Polity. 
The  Necessity  and  Majesty  of  Law. 

The  stateliness  of  houses,  the  goodliness  of  trees,  when  we  behold 
them,  delighteth  the  eye;  but  that  foundation  which  beareth  up  the 
one,  that  root  which  ministreth  unto  the  other  nourishment  and  life, 
is  in  the  bosom  of  the  earth  concealed;  and  if  there  be  occasion  at 
any  time  to  search  into  it,  such  labor  is  then  inore  necessary  than 
pleasant,  both  to  them  which  undertake  it,  and  for  the  lookers  on. 
In  like  manner,  the  use  and  benefit  of  good  laws  all  that  live  under 
them  may  enjoy  with  delight  and  comfort,  albeit  the  grounds  and  first 
original  causes  from  whence  they  have  sprung  be  unknown,  as  to  the 
greatest  part  of  men  they  are. 

Since  the  time  that  God  did  first  proclaim  the  edicts  of  his  law 
upon  the  world,  heaven  and  earth  have  hearkened  unto  his  voice, 
and  their  labor  hath  been  to  do  his  will.  He  made  a  law  for  the 
rain  ;  he  gave  his  decree  u?ito  the  sea,  tJiat  the  rvaters  should  not  pass 
his  commandment.  Now,  if  nature  should  intermit  her  course,  and 
leave  altogether,  though  it  were  for  a  while,  the  observation  of  her 
own  laws ;  if  those  principal  and  mother  elements  of  the  world, 
whereof  all  things  in  this  lower  world  are  made,  should  lose  the 
qualities  which  now  they  have;  if  the  frame  of  that  heavenly  arch 
erected  over  our  heads  should  loosen  and  dissolve  itself;  if  celestial 
spheres  should  forget  their  wonted  motions,  and  by  irregular  volu* 
bility  turn  themselves  any  way  as  it  might  happen;  if  the  prince  0/ 


A.  D.  loDi-1626.  FRANCIS  BACON.  93 

the  lights  of  heaven,  which  now,  as  a  giant,  doth  run  his  unwearied 
course,  should,  as  it  were,  through  a  languishing  faintness,  begin  to 
stand  and  to  rest  himself;  if  the  moon  should  wander  from  her  beaten 
way,  the  times  and  seasons  of  the  year  blend  themselves  by  disor- 
dered and  confused  mixture,  the  winds  breathe  out  their  last  gasp, 
the  clouds  yield  no  rain,  the  eai'th  be  defected  of  heavenly  influence, 
the  fruits  of  the  earth  pine  away,  as  children  at  the  withered  breasts 
oi  their  mother,  no  longer  able  to  yield  them  relief;  what  would  be- 
come of  man  himself,  whom  these  things  do  now  all  serve?  See  we 
not  plainly,  that  obedience  of  creatures  unto  the  law  of  nature  is  the 
stay  of  the  whole  world  ? 

Of  Law  there  can  be  no  less  acknowledged  than  that  her  seat  is  the 
bosom  of  God;  her  voice  the  harmony  of  the  world.  All  things  in 
heaven  and  earth  do  her  homage ;  the  very  least  as  feeling  her  care, 
and  the  greatest  as  not  exempted  from  her  power.  Both  angels  and 
men,  and  creatures  of  what  condition  soever,  though  each  in  difl:er- 
ent  sort  and  manner,  yet  all  with  uniform  consent,  admiring  her  as  . 
the  mother  of  their  peace  and  joy. 


Francis  Bacon.     1561-1626.     (Manual,  pp.  92-104.. ) 

From  the  Essays. 
S8t   Of  Studies. 

Studies  serve  for  delight,  for  ornament,  and  for  ability.  Their 
chief  use  for  delight,  is  in  privateness  and  retiring;  for  ornament,  is 
in  discourse;  and  for  ability,  is  in  the  judgment  and  disposition  of 
business ;  for  expert  men  can  execute,  and  perhaps  judge  of  particu- 
lars, one  by  one  :  but  the  general  counsels,  and  the  plots  and  mar- 
shalling of  affairs  come  best  from  those  that  are  learned.  To  spend 
too  much  time  in  studies,  is  sloth  ;  to  use  them  too  much  for  orna- 
ment, is  affectation;  to  make  judgment  wholly  by  their  rules,  is  the 
huinor  of  a  scholar :  they  perfect  nature,  and  are  perfected  by  experi- 
ence :  for  natural  abilities  are  like  natural  plants,  that  need  pruning 
by  study;  and  studies  themselves  do  give  forth  directions  too  much 
at  large,  except  they  be  bounded  in  by  experience.  Crafty  men  con  V 
temn  studies,  simple  men  admire  them,  and  wise  men  use  them ;  for! 
they  teach  not  their  own  use ;  but  that  is  a  wisdom  without  them,  and 
above  them,  won  by  observation.  Read  not  to  contradict  and  con- 
fute, nor  to  believe  and  take  for  granted,  nor  to  find  talk  and  dis- 
course, but  to  weigh  and  consider.  Some  books  are  to  be  tasted, 
others  to  be  swallowed,  and  some  few  to  be  chewed  and  digested ; 
that  is,  some  books  are  to  be  read  only  in  parts ;  others  to  be  read, 
but  not  curiously ;  and  some  few  to  be  read  whollj',  and  with  diligence 
and  attention.  Some  books  also  may  be  read  by  deputy,  and  extracts 
made  of  them  by  others ;  but  that  would  be  only  in  the  less  importanl 


94  FEANCIS  BACON.  Chap.  V. 

arguments  and  the  meaner  sort  of  books;  else  distilled  books  are,  like 
common  distilled  waters,  flashy  things.  Reading  maketh  a  full  man; 
conference  a  ready  man;  and  writing  an  exact  man;  and,  therefore, 
if  a  man  write  little,  he  had  need  have  a  great  memory;  if  he  confer 
little,  he  had  need  have  a  present  wit;  and  if  he  read  little,  he  had 
need  have  much  cunning,  to  seem  to  know  that  he  doth  not.  His- 
tories make  men  wise;  poets,  witty;  the  mathematics,  subtile;  nat- 
ural philosophy,  deep;  moral,  grave;  logic  and  rhetoric,  able  to 
contend. 


SO*    Of  Adversity. 

But  to  speak  in  a  mean,  the  virtue  of  prosperity  is  temperance,  the 
virtue  of  adversity  is  fortitude,  which  in  morals  is  the  more  heroical 
virtue.  Prosperity  is  the  blessing  of  the  Old  Testament,  adversity  is 
the  blessing  of  the  New,  which  carrieth  the  greater  benediction,  and 
the  clearer  revelation  of  God's  favor.  Yet  even  in  the  Old  Testament, 
if  you  listen  to  David's  harp,  you  shall  hear  as  many  hearse-like  airs 
as  carols ;  and  the  pencil  of  the  Holy  Ghost  hath  labored  more  in 
describing  the  afflictions  of  Job  than  the  felicities  of  Solomon.  Pros- 
perity is  not  without  many  fears  and  distastes ;  and  adversity  is  not 
without  comforts  and  hopes.     We  see  in  needle-works  and  embroid- 

feries,  it  is  more  pleasing  to  have  a  lively  work  upon  a  sad  and 
solemn  ground,  than  to  have  a  dark  and  melancholy  work  upon  a 
lightsome  ground :  judge,  therefore,  of  the  pleasure  of  the  heart  by 

..the   pleasure   of  the  eye.      Certainly   virtue   is   like   precious    odors,v 
most  fragrant  when  they  are  incensed,  or  crushed  :  for  prosperity  doth/ 
best  discover  vice,  but  adversity  doth  best  discover  virtue.. 


00*    Of  Discourse. 

Some  in  their  discourse  desire  rather  commendation  of  Avit,  in  being 
able  to  hold  all  arguments,  than  of  judgment,  in  discerning  what  is 
true;  as  if  it  were  a  praise  to  know  what  inight  be  said,  and  not  what 
should  be  thought.  Some  have  certain  common-places  and  themes, 
wherein  they  are  good,  and  want  variety :  which  kind  of  poverty  is 
for  the  most  part  tedious,  and,  when  it  is  once  perceived,  ridiculciis. 
The  honorablest  part  of  talk  is  to  give  the  occasion;  and  again  to 
moderate  and  pass  to  somewhat  else,  for  then  a  man  leads  the  dance. 
It  is  good  in  discourse,  and  speech  of  conversation,  to  vary  and  inter- 
mingle speech  of  the  present  occasion  with  arguments,  tales  with  rea- 
sons, asking  of  questions  with  telling  of  opinions,  and  jest  with 
earnest;  for  it  is  a  dull  thing  to  tire,  and  as  we  say  now,  to  jade  any- 
thing too  far.  As  for  jest,  there  be  certain  things  which  ought  to  be 
Drivileged  from  it;  namely,  religion,  matters  of  stale,  great  persons, 
any  man's  present  business  of  importance,  and  any  case  that  deserveih 
pity;  yet  tliere  be  some  that  think  their  wits  have  been  asleep,  cxrcpt 


A.  D.  1561-1G26.  FRANCIS  BACON.  jf/| 

thej  dart  out  somewhat  that  is  piquant,  and  to  the  quick;  that  is  a 
vein  which  would  be  bridled.  And,  generally,  men  ought  to  find  the 
difference  between  saltness  and  bitterness.  Certainly,  he  that  hath  a 
satirical  vein,  as  he  maketh  others  afraid  of  his  wit,  so  he  had  need  be 
afraid  of  others'  memory.  He  that  questioneth  much,  shall  learn 
much,  and  content  much ;  but  especially  if  he  apply  his  questions  to 
the  skill  of  the  persons  whom  he  asketh ;  for  he  shall  give  them  occa- 
sion to  please  themselves  in  speaking,  and  himself  shall  continually 
gather  knowledge ;  but  let  his  questions  not  be  troublesome,  for  that 
is  fit  for  a  poser;  and  let  him  be  sure  to  leave  other  men  their  turns 
to  speak :  nay,  if  there  be  any  that  would  reign  and  take  up  all  the 
time,  let  him  find  means  to  take  them  off,  and  to  bring  others  on,  as 
musicians  use  to  do  with  those  that  dance  too  long  galliards.  If  yon 
dissemble  sometimes  your  knowledge  of  that  you  are  thought  to 
know,  you  shall  be  thought,  another  time,  to  know  that  you  know 
not.     Speech  of  a  man's  self  ought  to  be  seldom,  and  well-chosen. 


01  •    Atheism  Ignoble. 

I  had  rather  believe  all  the  fables  in  the  Legend,  and  the  Talmud, 
and  the  Alcoran,  than  that  this  universal  frame  is  without  a  Mind. 
And  therefore  God  never  wrought  miracle  to  convince  Atheism ; 
because  his  ordinary  works  convince  it.  It  is  true  that  a  little  phi- 
losophy inclineth  man's  mind  to  Atheism;  but  depth  in  philosophy 
bringeth  men's  minds  about  to  Religion  :  for,  while  the  mind  of  man 
looketh  upon  second  causes  scattered,  it  may  sometimes  rest  in  them, 
and  go  no  farther;  but,  when  it  beholdeth  the  chain  of  them,  confed- 
erate and  linked  together,  it  must  needs  fly  to  Providence  and  Deity. 
The  Scripture  saith,  "The  fool  hath  said  in  his  heart,  there  is  no 
God;"  it  is  not  said,  "The  fool  hath  thought  in  his  heart:"  so  as  he 
rather  saith  it  by  rote  to  himself,  as  that  he  would  have,  than  that  he 
can  thoroughly  believe  it  or  be  persuaded  of  it.  For  none  deny  there 
is  a  God,  but  those  for  whom  it  maketh  that  there  were  no  God.  But 
the  great  Atheists,  indeed,  are  hypocrites,  which  are  ever  handling 
holy  things,  but  without  feeling.  They  that  deny  a  God,  destroy 
man's  nobility :  for  certainly  man  is  of  kin  to  the  beasts  by  his  body  : 
and,  if  he  be  not  akin  to  God  by  his  spirit,  he  is  a  base  and  ignoble 
creature.  It  destroys  likewise  magnanimity  and  the  raising  of  human 
nature :  for,  take  an  example  of  a  dog,  and  mark  what  a  generosity 
and  courage  he  will  put  on  when  he  finds  himself  maintained  by  a 
man,  who  to  him  is  instead  of  a  God  or  Melior  Natura  :  which  courage 
is  manifestly  such,  as  that  creature,  without  that  confidence  of  a  better 
nature  than  his  own,  could  never  attain.  So  man,  when  he  resteth 
and  assureth  himself  upon  Divine  protection  and  favour,  gathereth  a 
force  and  faith,  which  human  nature  in  itself  could  not  obtam. 
Therefore,  as  Atheism  is  in  all  respects  hateful,  so  in  this,  that  il 
depriveth  human  nature  of  the  means  to  exalt  itself  above  hurh^^ 
fraiitv. 


96  FRANCIS  BACON,  Chap.  V« 

From  the  Introduction  to  *«  The  Great  Restauration." 
G2»    Design  of  the  Inductive  Philosophy. 

The  sixth  and  last  part  of  our  work,  to  which  all  the  rest  are  sub- 
servient, is  to  lay  down  that  philosophy  which  shall  flow  from  the 
just,  pure,  and  strict  inquiry  hitherto  proposed.  But  to  perfect  this, 
is  beyond  both  our  abilities  and  our  hopes,  yet  we  shall  lay  the  foun- 
dations of  it,  and  recommend  the  superstructure  to  posterity.  We 
design  no  contemptible  beginning  to  the  work;  and  anticipate  that 
the  fortune  of  mankind  will  lead  it  to  such  a  termination  as  is  not 
possible  for  the  present  race  of  men  to  conceive.  The  point  in  view 
is  not  only  the  contemplative  happiness,  but  the  whole  fortunes,  and 
affairs,  and  power,  and  works,  of  men.  For  man  being  the  minister 
and  interpreter  of  nature,  acts  and  understands  so  far  as  he  has  ob- 
served of  the  order,  the  works,  and  mind,  of  nature,  and  can  proceed 
no  farther;  for  no  power  is  able  to  loose  or  break  the  chain  of  causes, 
nor  is  nature  to  be  conquered  but  by  submission :  whence  those  twin 
intentions,  human  knowledge  and  human  power,  are  really  coinci- 
dent; and  the.  greatest  hinderance  to  works,  is  the  ignorance  of 
causes. 

The  capital  precept  for  the  whole  undertaking  is  this,  that  the  eye 
of  the  mind  be  never  taken  off  from  things  themselves,  but  receive 
their  images  truly  as  they  are.  And  God  forbid  that  ever  we  should 
offer  the  dreams  of  fancy  for  a  model  of  the  world ;  but  rather  in  his 
kindness  vouchsafe  to  us  the  means  of  writing  a  revelation  and  true 
vision  of  the  traces  and  moulds  of  the  Creator  in  his  creatures. 

May  thou,  therefore,  O  Father,  who  gavest  the  light  of  vision  as 
the  first  fruit  of  creation,  and  who  hast  spread  over  the  fall  of  man 
the  light  of  thy  understanding  as  the  accomplishment  of  thy  works, 
guard  and  direct  this  work,  which,  issuing  from  thy  goodness,  seeks  in 
return  thy  glory!  When  thou  hadst  surveyed  the  works  which  thy 
hands  had  wrought,  all  seemed  good  in  thy  sight,  and  thou  restedst. 
But  when  man  turned  to  the  works  of  his  hands,  he  found  all  vanity 
and  vexation  of  spirit,  and  experienced  no  rest.  If,  however,  we 
labour  in  thy  works,  thou  wilt  make  us  to  partake  of  thy  vision  and 
sabbath  ;  we,  therefore,  humbly  beseech  thee  to  strengthen  our  pur- 
pose, that  thou  mayst  be  willing  to  endow  thy  family  of  mankind  with 
new  gifts,  through  our  hands,  and  the  hands  of  those  in  whom  thou 
shalt  implant  the  same  spirit. 

From  the  Advancement  of  Learning.    Book  I.  §  C. 

OS*    The  Benefit  of  Learning. 

If  it  be  objected,  that  learning  takes  up  much  time,  which  might  be 
better  employed,  I  answer  that  the  most  active  or  busy  men  have 
many  vacant  hours,  while  they  expect  the  tides  and  returns  of  busi 


A.  D.  lo61-1626.  FRANCIS   BACON.  97 

ness ;  and  then  the  question  is,  how  those  spaces  of  leisure  shall  be 
filled  up,  whether  with  pleasure  or  study?  Demosthenes  being 
taunted  by  -^'Eschines,  a  man  of  pleasure,  that  his  speeches  smelt  of 
the  lamp,  very  pertly  retorted,  "There  is  great  difference  between  the 
objects  which  you  and  I  pursue  by  lamp-light."  No  fear,  therefore, 
that  learning  should  displace  business,  for  it  rather  keeps  and  defends 
the  mind  against  idleness  tmd  pleasure,  which  might  otherwise  enter 
to  the  prejudice  both  of  business  and  learning. 

For  the  allegation  that  learning  should  undermine  the  reverence 
due  to  laws  and  government,  it  is  a  mere  calumny,  without  shadow 
of  truth;  for  to  say  that  blind  custom  of  obedience  should  be  a  safer 
obligation  than  duty,  taught  and  understood,  is  to  say  that  a  blind 
man  may  tread  surer  by  a  guide  than  a  man  with  his  eyes  open  can 
by  a  light.  And,  doubtless,  learning  makes  the  mind  gentle  and 
pliable  to  government,  whereas  ignorance  renders  it  churlish  and 
mutinous ;  and  it  is  always  found  that  the  most  barbarous,  rude,  and 
ignorant  times  have  been  most  tumultuous,  changeable,  and  seditious. 


From  the  Advancement  of  Learning,    Close  of  Book  I. 
G4:,    The  Dignity  of  Literature. 

To  conclude,  the  dignity  and  excellence  of  knowledge  and  learning 
is  what  human  nature  most  aspires  to  for  the  securing  of  immortality, 
which  is  also  endeavoured  after  by  raising  and  ennobling  fainilies,  by 
buildings,  foundations,  and  monuments  of  fame,  and  is  in  effect  the 
bent  of  all  other  human  desires.  But  we  see  how  much  more  durable 
the  monuments  of  genius  and  learning  are  than  those  of  the  hand. 
The  verses  of  Homer  have  continued  above  five  and  twenty  hundred 
years  without  loss,  in  which  time  numberless  palaces,  temples,  castles, 
and  cities  have  been  demolished  and  are  fallen  to  ruin.  It  is  impossible 
to  have  the  true  pictures  or  statues  of  Cyrus,  Alexander,  Caesar,  or  the 
great  personages  oi  much  later  date,  for  the  originals  cannot  last,  and 
the  copies  must  lose  life  and  truth;  but  the  images  of  men's  knowl- 
edge remain  in  books,  exempt  from  the  injuries  of  time,  and  capable 
of  perpetual  renovation.  Nor  are  these  properly  called  images ;  be- 
cause they  generate  still,  and  sow  their  seed  in  the  minds  of  others, 
so  as  to  cause  infinite  actions  and  opinions  in  succeeding  ages.  If, 
therefore,  the  invention  of  a  ship  was  thought  so  noble,  which  carries 
commodities  from  place  to  place  and  consociateth  the  remotest  regions 
in  participation  of  their  fruits,  how  much  more  are  letters  to  be  valued, 
which,  like  ships,  pass  through  the  vast  ocean  of  time,  and  convey 
knowledge  and  inventions  to  the  remotest  ages.''  Nay,  some  of  the 
philosophers  who  were  most  immersed  in  the  senses,  and  denied  the 
immortality  of  the  soul,  yet  allowed  that  whatever  motions  the  spirit 
of  man  could  perform  without  the  organs  of  the  body  might  remain 
after  death,  which  are  only  those  of  the  understanding  and  not  of  the 

7 


98  ROBERT  BURTON.  Chap.  V. 

aflfections,  so  immortal  and  incorruptible  a  thing  did  knowledge  appear 
to  them.  And  thus  having  endeavored  to  do  justice  to  the  cause  of 
knowledge,  divine  and  human,  we  shall  leave  Wisdom  to  be  justified 
of  her  children. 


Advancement  of  Learning.    Book  III.,  chap.  II. 

35,    Vindication  of  Natural  Theology. 

Divine  philosophy  is  a  science,  or  rather  the  rudiments  of  a  science, 
derivable  from  God  by  the  light  of  nature,  and  the  contemplation  of 
his  creatures ;  so  that  with  regard  to  its  object,  it  is  truly  divine ;  but 
with  regard  to  its  acquirement,  natural.  The  bounds  of  this  knowl- 
edge extend  to  the  confutation  of  atheism,  and  the  ascertaining  the 
laws  of  nature,  but  not  to  the  establishing  of  religion.  And,  there- 
fore, God  never  wrought  a  miracle  to  convert  an  atheist,  because  the 
light  of  nature  is  sufficient  to  demonstrate  a  deity ;  but  miracles  were 
designed  for  the  conversion  of  the  idolatrous  and  superstitious,  who 
acknowledged  a  God,  but  erred  in  their  worship  of  him  —  the  light  of 
nature  being  unable  to  declare  the  will  of  God,  or  assign  the  just  form 
of  worshipping  him.  For  as  the  power  and  skill  of  a  workman  are 
seen  in  his  works,  but  not  his  person,  so  the  works  of  God  express  the 
wisdom  and  omnipotence  of  the  Creator,  without  the  least  representa- 
tion of  his  image.  And  in  this  particular,  the  opinion  of  the  heathens 
differed  from  the  sacred  verity,  as  supposing  the  world  to  be  the  image 
of  God,  and  man  a  little  image  of  the  world.  The  Scripture  never 
gives  the  world  that  honour,  but  calls  it  the  work  of  his  hands  ;  making 
only  man  the  image  of  God.  And,  therefore,  the  being  of  a  God, 
that  he  governs  the  world,  that  he  is  all-powerful,  wise,  prescient, 
good,  a  just  rewarder  and  punisher,  and  to  be  adored,  may  be  shown 
and  enforced  from  his  works ;  and  many  other  wonderful  secrets,  with 
regard  to  his  attributes,  and  much  more  as  to  his  dispensation  and 
government  over  the  universe,  may  also  be  solidly  deduced,  and 
made  appear  from  the  same.  And  this  subject  has  been  usefully 
treated  by  several. 


Robert  Burton,     i 576-1640.     (Manual,  p.  104.) 

From  the  Anatomy  of  Melancholy. 
SO,   Philautia,  or  Self-Love,  a  Cause  of  Melancholy. 

Now  the  common  cause  of  this  mischief  ariseth  from  ourselves  or 
others  :  we  are  active  and  passive.  It  proceeds  inwardly  from  our- 
selves, as  we  are  active  causes,  from  an  overweening  conceit  we  have 
of  our  good  parts,  own  worth  (which  indeed  is  no  worth),  our  bounty, 
favour,  grace,  valour,  strength,  wealth,  patience,  meekness,  hospitality, 
beauty,  temperance,  gentry,  knowledge,  wit,   science,  art,   learning, 


A.D.  1576-1G40.  ROBERT  BURTON.  99 

our  excellent  gifts  and  fortunes,  for  which  (Narcissus-like)  we  admire, 
flatter,  and  applaud  ourselves,  and  think  all  the  world  esteems  so  of 
us;  and,  as  deformed  women  easily  believe  those  that  tell  them  they 
be  fair,  we  are  too  credulous  of  our  own  good  parts  and  praises,  too 
well  persuaded  of  ourselves.  We  brag  and  vendicate  our  own  works, 
and  scorn  all  others  in  respect  of  us.  .  .  .  That  which  Tullj'  writ  to 
Atticus  long  since,  is  still  in  force  —  there  ivas  never  yet  true  j)oet  of 
orator,  that  thought  any  othet  better  than  himself.  And  such,  for  the 
most  part,  are  your  princes,  potentates,  great  philosophers,  histori- 
ographers, authors  of  sects  or  heresies,  and  all  our  great  scholars,  as 
Hierom  defines  :  a  ?tatural  philosopher  is  glorfs  creature,  and  a  very 
slave  of  rumour,  fame,  and  popular  opinion  :  and,  though  they  write 
de  contemptu  glorioe,  yet  (as  he  observes)  they  will  put  their  names  to 
their  books. 


S'^ •   The  Power  of  Love. 

Bocace  hath  a  pleasant  tale  to  this  purpose,  which  he  borrowed  from 
the  Greeks,  and  which  Beroaldus  hath  turned  into  Latine,  Bebelius 
into  verse,  of  Cymon  and  Iphigenia.  This  Cymon  was  a  fool,  a 
proper  man  of  person,  and  the  governor  of  Cyprus  son,  but  a  very 
ass ;  insomuch  that  his  father  being  ashamed  of  him,  sent  him  to  a 
farm-house  he  had  in  the  country,  to  be  brought  up  ;  where  by  chance, 
as  his  manner  was,  walking  alone,  he  espied  a  gallant  young  gentle- 
woman named  Iphigenia,  a  burgomaster's  daughter  of  Cyprus,  with 
her  maid,  by  a  brook  side,  in  a  little  thicket.  Whett  Cymon  saw  her, 
he  stood  leatiing  ofi  his  staffe.,  gaping  on  her  immovable,  and  in  a  maze : 
at  last  he  fell  so  far  in  love  with  the  glorious  object,  that  he  began  to 
rouze  himself  up;  to  bethink  what  he  was;  would  needs  follow  her 
to  the  city,  and  for  her  sake  began  to  be  civil,  to  learn  to  sing  and 
dance,  to  play  on  instruments,  and  got  all  those  gentleman-like  quali- 
ties and  complements,  in  a  short  space,  which  his  friends  were  most 
glad  of.  In  brief,  he  became  froin  an  idiot  and  a  clown,  to  be  one  of 
the  most  complete  gentlemen  in  Cyprus;  did  many  valorous  exploits, 
and  all  for  the  love  of  Mistress  Iphigenia.  In  a  word  I  may  say  this 
much  of  them  all,  let  them  be  never  so  clownish,  rude  and  horrid, 
Grobians  and  sluts,  if  once  they  be  in  love,  they  will  be  most  neat 
and  spruce.  'Tis  all  their  studj^,  all  their  business,  how  to  wear  their 
clothes  neat,  to  be  polite  and  terse,  and  to  set  out  themselves.  No 
sooner  doth  a  young  man  see  his  sweetheart  coming,  but  he  smugs 
up  himself,  pulls  up  his  cloak,  now  fallen  about  hi«?  shoulders,  ties 
his  garters,  points,  sets  his  band,  cuffs,  slicks  his  hnir,  twires  his 
beard,  &c 


100  LORD  HERBERT  OF  CHER  BURY,         Chap.  V. 

68*  Lord  Herbert  of  Cherbury.     1581-1648.     (Manual, 

p.  105.) 

From  Life  of  Henry  VIII. 

Sir  Thomas  More,  Lord  Chancellor  of  England,  after  divers  suits 
to  be  discharged  of  his  place  —  which  he  had  held  two  years  and  a 
half —  did  at  length  by  the  king's  good  leave  resign  it.     The  example 
whereof  being  rare,  will  give  me  occasion  to  speak  more  particularly 
of  him.     Sir  Thomas  More,  a  person  of  sharp  wit,  and  endued  be- 
sides with  excellent  parts  of  learning  (as  his  works  may  testify),  was 
yet  (out  of  I  know  not  what  natural  facetiousness)  given  so  much  to 
jesting,  that  it  detracted  no  little  from  the  gravity  and  importance  of 
his  place,  which,  though  generally  noted  and  disliked,  I  do  not  think 
was  enough  to  make  him  give  it  over  in  that  merriment  we  shall  find 
anon,  or  retire  to  a  private  life.     Neither  can  I  believe  him  so  much 
addicted  to  his  private  opinions  as  to  detest  all  other  governments  but 
his  own  Utopia,  so  that  it  is  probable  some  vehement  desire  to  follow 
his  book,  or  secret  offence  taken  against  some  person  or  matter  — 
among  which  perchance  the  king's   new  intended  marriage,   or   the 
like,  might  be  accounted  —  occasioned  this  strange  counsel;  though, 
yet,  I  find  no  reason  pretended  for  it  but  infinnity  and  want  of  health. 
Our  king  hereupon   taking  the  seal,   and  giving  it,  together  with  the 
order  of  knighthood,  to  Thomas  Audley,  Speaker  of  the  Lower  House, 
Sir  Thomas  More,  without  acquainting  any  body  with  what  he  had 
done,  repairs  to  his  family  at  Chelsea,  where  after  a  mass  celebrated, 
the  next  day,  in  the  church,  he  comes  to  his  lady's  pew,  with  his  hat 
in  his  hand  —  an  office  formerly  done  by  one  of  his  gentlemen  —  and 
says:  "Madam,  my  lord  is  gone."     But  she  thinking  this  at  first  to 
be  but  one  of  his  jests,  was  little  moved,  till  he  told  her  sadly,  he  had 
given   up  the  great  seal;  whereupon   she  speaking  some  passionate 
words  he  called  his  daughters  then  present  to  see  if  they  could  not 
spy  some  fault  about  their  mother's  dressing;  but  they  after  search 
saying  they  could  find  none,   he  replied  :   "  Do  you  not  perceive  that 
your  mother's  nose  standeth  somewhat  awry.^"' — of  which  jeer  the 
provoked  lady  was  so  sensible,   that  she  went  from  him  in  a  rage. 
Shortly  after,  he  acquainted  his  servants  with  what  he  had  done,  dis- 
missing them  also  to  the  attendance  of  some  other  great  personages, 
CO  whom  he  had  recommended  them.     For  his  fool,  he  bestowed  him 
on  the  lord-mayor  during  his  office,  and  afterwards  on  his  successors 
in  that  charge.     And  now  coming  to  himself,   he  began  to  consider 
iiow  much  he  had  left,  and  finding  that  it  was  not  above  one  hundred 
pounds  yearly  in    lands,  besides  some  money,    he   advised  with    his 
daughters  how  to  live  together.     But  the  grieved  gentlewomen  — who 
knew  not  what  to  reply,  or  indeed  how  to  take  these  jests  —  remained 
astonished,  he  says  :   "  We  will  begin  with  the  slender  diet  of  the  stu- 
dents of  the  law,   and  if  that  will  not  hold  out,  we  will  take  such 


i  >  >»  >  3       > 

>  >  3    >  J  •>         ) 

>  1  >      ,  3  ■) 

11  1  t  , 


>■»         .'  >  '■>>!,>  3  1, 


A.  D.  15b8-1679.  THOMAS   HOBBES:\  I      I  V    i  )]^  U)i  '    .'  '. 


■»>>)-»      1 


commons  as  they  have  at  Oxford;  which,  yet,  if  our  purse  will  not 
stretch  to  maintain,  for  our  last  refuge  we  will  go  a  begging,  and  at 
every  man's  door  sing  together  a  Salve  Regina  to  get  alms."  But 
these  jests  were  thought  to  have  in  them  inore  levity  than  to  be  taken 
everywhere  for  current;  he  might  have  quitted  his  dignity  without 
using  such  sarcasms,  and  betaken  himself  to  a  more  retired  and  quiet 
life  without  making  them  or  himself  contemptible.  And  certainly 
whatsoever  he  intended  hereby,  his  family  so  little  understood  his 
meaning,  that  they  needed  some  more  serious  instructions.  So  that 
I  cannot  persuade  myself  for  all  this  talk,  that  so  excellent  a  person 
would  omit  at  fit  times  to  give  his  family  that  sober  account  of  his 
relinquishing  this  place,  which  I  find  he  did  to  the  Archbishop  War- 
ham,  Erasmus,  and  others. 


00»   Thomas  Hobbes.     1588-1679.     (Manual,  p.  105.) 

From  the  Treatise  on  Human  Nature. 
Emulation  and  Envy. 

Emulatt07i  is  grief  arising  from  seeing  one's  self  exceeded  or  ex- 
celled by  his  co7icurrent.  together  with  hope  to  equal  or  exceed  him 
in  time  to  come,  by  his  own  ability.  But,  e7ivy  is  the  same  grief 
joined  with  pleasure  conceived  in  the  imagination  of  some  ///  fortune 
that  may  befall  him. 

Laughter. 

There  is  a  passion  that  hath  no  name ;  but  the  sign  of  it  is  that 
distortion  of  the  countenance  which  we  call  laughter,  which  is  always 
Joy :  but  what  joy,  what  we  think,  and  wherein  we  triumph  when  we 
laugh,  is  not  hitherto  declared  by  any.  That  it  consisteth  in  ii'it,  or, 
as  they  call  it,  in  the  Jest,  experience  co7ifuteth  :  for  men  laugh  at 
mischances  and  indecencies,  wherein  there  lieth  no  wit  nor  jest  at  all. 
And  forasmuch  as  the  same  thing  is  no  more  ridicvdous  when  it  grow- 
eth  stale  or  usual,  whatsoever  it  be  that  moveth  laughter,  it  must  be 
new  and  unexpected.  Men  laugh  often,  especially  such  as  are  greedy 
of  applause  from  everything  they  do  well,  at  their  o'ivn  actions  per- 
formed never  so  little  beyond  their  own  expectations ;  as  also  at  their 
o\sn  jests:  and  in  this  case  it  is  manifest,  that  the  passion  of  laughter 
proceedeth  from  a  sudden  conceptio7i  cf  some  ability  in  himself  that 
laugheth.  Also  men  laugh  at  the  t7ifi7'7nitics  of  others,  by  comparison 
wherewith  their  own  abilities  are  set  off  and  illustrated.  Also  men 
laugh  at  jests,  the  rvit  whereof  always  consisteth  in  the  elegant  dis- 
covering and  conveying  to  our  minds  some  absurdity  of  another  :  and 
in  this  case  also  the  passion  of  laughter  proceedeth  from  the  sudden 
imagination  of  our  own  odds  and  eminency :  for  what  is  else  the  rec- 
ommending of  ourselves  to  our  own  good  opin  on,  by  comparison 


lt)2  -      ■    '  THOMAS  EOBBES.  Chap.  V. 

with  another  man's  infirmity  or  absurdity?  For  when  a  jest  is  broken 
upon  ourselves,  or  friends  of  whose  dishonour  we  participate,  Ave  nevei 
laugh  thereat.  I  may  therefore  conclude,  that  the  passion  of  laugh- 
ter is  nothing  else  but  sudden  glory  arising  from  some  sudden  concep- 
tion of  some  eminency  in  ourselves,  by  comparison  with  the  infirmity 
of  others,  or  with  our  own  formerly:  for  men  laugh  at  the  follies  of 
themselves  past,  when  they  come  suddenly  to  remembrance,  except 
they  bring  with  them  any  present  dishonour.  It  is  no  wonder  theie- 
fore  that  men  take  heinously  to  be  laughed  at  or  derided,  that  is,  tri- 
umphed over.  Laughter  without  offence.,  must  be  at  absurdities  and 
infirmities  abstracted  from  persons,  and  when  all  the  company  may 
laugh  together :  for  laughing  to  one's  self  putteth  all  the  rest  into 
jealousy  and  examination  of  themselves.  Besides,  it  is  vain  glory, 
and  an  argument  of  little  worth,  to  think  the  infirmity  of  another, 
sufficient  matter  for  his  triumph. 

Weeping. 

The  passion  opposite  hereunto,  whose  signs  are  another  distortion 
of  the  face  with  tears,  called  iveeping.,  is  the  sudden  falling  out  tuith 
ourselves,  or  sudden  conception  of  defect;  and  therefore  children 
weep  often  ;  for  seeing  they  think  that  every  thing  ought  to  be  given 
them  which  they  desire,  of  necessity  every  repulse  must  be  a  check 
of  their  expectation,  and  puts  them  in  mind  of  their  too  much  weak- 
ness to  make  themselves  masters  of  all  they  look  for.  For  the  same 
cause  women  are  more  apt  to  weep  than  men,  as  being  not  only  more 
accustomed  to  have  their  wills,  but  also  to  measure  their  powers  by 
the  power  and  love  of  others  that  protect  them.  Men  are  apt  to  weep 
that  prosecute  revenge,  when  the  revenge  is  suddenly  stopped  or  frus- 
trated by  the  repentance  of  their  adversary;  and  such  are  the  tears 
of  reconciliation.  Also  revengeful  men  are  svibject  to  this  passion 
upon  the  beholding  those  men  they  pity,  and  suddenly  remember 
they  cannot  help.  Other  weeping  in  men  proceedeth  for  the  most 
part  from  the  same  cause  it  proceedeth  from  in  women  and  children. 

Admiration  and  Curiosity. 

Forasmuch  as  all  knowledge  beginneth  from  experience,  therefore 
also  ?ietv  experience  is  the  beginning  of  new  knowledge,  and  the  in- 
crease of  experience  the  beginning  of  the  increase  of  knowledge. 
"Whatsoever  therefore  happeneth  new  to  a  man,  giveth  him  matter  of 
hope  of  knowing  somewhat  that  he  knew  not  before.  And  this  hope 
and  expectation  of  future  knowledge  from  anything  that  happeneth 
new  and  strange,  is  that  passion  which  we  commonly  call  admira^ 
tioji ;  and  the  same  considered  as  appetite,  is  called  curiosity,  which 
is  appetite  of  knowledge.  As  in  the  discerning  of  faculties,  man 
leaveth  all  community  with  beasts  at  the  faculty  of  ifnposing  names  ; 
BO  also  doth  he  surmount  their  nature  at  this  passion  of  curiosity. 
For  M'hen  a  beast  seeth  anything  new  and  strange  to  him,  he  consid- 


A.  D.  1588-1679.  THOMAS  HOBBES.  103 

ereth  it  so  far  only  as  to  discern  whether  it  be  likely  to  serve  his  turn, 
or  hurt  him,  and  accordingly  approacheth  nearer  to  it,  or  fleeth  from 
it:  whereas  man,  who  in  most  events  remembereth  in  what  manner 
they  were  caused  and  begun,  looketh  for  the  cause  and  beginning  of 
everything  that  ariseth  new  unto  him.  And  from  this  passion  of  ad- 
miration and  curiosity,  have  arisen  not  only  the  invention  of  names, 
but  also  supposition  of  such  causes  of  all  things  as  they  thought 
might  produce  them.  And  from  this  beginning  is  derived  a.\\  philoso- 
phy ;  as  astronomy  from  the  admiration  of  the  course  of  heaven  ; 
natural  philosophy  from  the  strange  effects  of  the  elements  and  other 
bodies.  And  from  the  degrees  of  curiosity,  proceed  also  the  degrees 
of  knowledge  amongst  men  :  for,  to  a  man  in  the  chase  of  riches  or 
authority  (which  in  respect  of  knowledge  are  but  sensuality),  it  is  a 
diversity  of  little  pleasure,  whether  it  be  the  motion  of  the  sun  or  the 
earth  that  maketh  the  day,  or  to  enter  into  other  contemplations  of 
any  strange  accident,  otherwise  than  w^hether  it  conduce  or  not  to  the 
end  he  pursueth.  Because  curiosity  is  delight^  therefore  also  novelty 
is  so,  but  especially  that  novelty  from  which  a  man  conceiveth  an 
opinion  true  or  false  o{  bettering- Win  own  estate;  for,  in  such  case, 
they  stand  affected  with  the  hope  that  all  gamesters  have  while  the 
cards  are  shuffling. 


104  CHRISTOPHER  MARLOWE.  CiLiP.  VI. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

THE    DAWN    OF   THE   DRAMA. 


Christopher  Marlowe.     i563?-i593.     (Manual,  p.  126.)' 

70,    From  Edward  II. 

Murder  of  the  King. 

Berkley  Castle.    The  King  is  left  aloue  with  Lightborn,  a  murderer. 

Edw.    Who's  there?  what  lisrht  is  that?  wherefore  comest  thou? 
Light.  To  comfort  you,  and  bring  jou  joyful  news. 
Ediv.     Small  comfort  finds  poor  Edward  in  thy  looks. 

Villain,  I  know  thou  comest  to  murder  me. 
Light.  To  murder  you,  my  most  gracious  lord? 

Far  is  it  from  my  heart  to  do  you  harm. 

The  queen  sent  me  to  see  how  you  were  used, 

For  she  relents  at  this  your  inisery  : 

And  what  eyes  can  refrain  from  shedding  tears, 

To  see  a  king  in  this  most  piteous  state? 
Edvj.     Weep'st  tliou  already?  list  awhile  to  me, 

And  then  thy  heart,  were  it  as  Gurney's  *  is, 

Or  as  Matrevis,*  hewn  from  the  Caucasus, 

Yet  will  it  mielt,  ere  I  have  done  my  tale. 

This  dungeon  where  they  keep  me  is  a  sink 

Wherein  the  filth  of  all  the  castle  falls. 
Light    O  villains ! 
Edw.    And  there,  in  mire  and  puddle  have  I  stood 

This  ten  days'  space ;  and  lest  that  I  should  sleep, 

One  plays  continually  upon  a  drum. 

They  give  me  bread  and  water,  being  a  king; 

So  that,  for  want  of  sleep  and  sustenance, 

My  mind  's  distemper'd,  and  my  body  's  numb'd, 

And  whether  I  have  limbs  or  no,  I  know  not. 

O,  would  my  blood  drop  out  from  every  vein, 

As  doth  this  water  from  my  tatter'd  robes  I 

Tell  Isabel  the  queen,  I  look'd  not  thus. 

When  for  her  sake  I  ran  at  tilt  in  France,^ 

And  there  unhorsed  the  duke  of  Cleremont. 

1  llis  keepers. 


A.  D.  1563-1593.      CHRISTOPHER  MARLOWE.  105 

Light.  O,  speak  no  more,  my  lord !  this  breaks  my  heart. 

Lie  on  this  bed,  and  rest  yourself  awhile. 
Edw.    These  looks  of  thine  can  harbour  naught  but  death  : 

I  see  my  tragedy  written  in  th}'  brows. 

Yet  stay  awhile,  forbear  thy  bloody  hand, 

And  let  me  see  the  stroke  before  it  comes, 

That  even  then  when  I  shall  lose  my  life, 

My  mind  may  be  more  steadfast  on  my  God. 
Light.  What  means  your  highness  to  mistrust  me  thus? 
Edw.    What  mean'st  thou  to  dissemble  with  me  thus.? 
Light.  These  hands  were  never  stained  with  innocent  bloo<i, 

Nor  shall  they  now  be  tainted  with  a  king's. 
Ediv.     Forgive  my  thought,  for  having  such  a  thought. 

One  jewel  have  I  left,  receive  thou  this. 

Still  fear  I,  and  I  know  not  what 's  the  cause, 

But  every  joint  shakes  as  I  give  it  thee. 

O,  if  thou  harbour'st  murder  in  thy  heart, 

Let  this  gift  change  thy  mind,  and  save  thy  soul. 

Know  that  I  am  a  king :  O,  at  that  name 

I  feel  a  hell  of  grief.     Where  is  my  crown.? 

Gone,  gone,  and  do  I  still  remain  alive? 
Light.  You  're  overwatch'd,  my  lord ;  lie  down  and  rest 
Edw.    But  that  grief  keeps  me  waking,  I  should  sleep  ; 

For  not  these  ten  days  have  these  eyelids  closed. 

Now  as  I  speak  they  fall,  and  yet  with  fear 

Open  again.     O,  wherefore  sitt'st  thou  here? 
Light.  If  you  mistrust  me,  I'll  be  gone,  my  lord. 
Edw.    No,  no,  for  if  thou  mean'st  to  murder  me, 

Thou  wilt  return  again ;  and  therefore  stay. 
Light.  He  sleeps. 

Edw.    O,  let  me  not  die ;  yet  stay,  O,  stay  awhile. 
Light.  How  now,  vay  lord? 
Edw.     Something  still  buzzeth  in  mine  ears, 

And  tells  me  if  I  sleep  I  never  wake ; 

This  fear  is  that  which  makes  me  tremble  thus. 

And  therefore  tell  me,  wherefore  art  thou  comef 
Light.  To  rid  thee  of  thy  life;  Matrevis,  come. 
Edw.    I  am  too  weak  and  feeble  to  resist : 

Assist  me,  sweet  God,  and  receive  my  soul. 


71*    From  Doctor  Faustus. 
Faustus  alone.     The  clock  strikes  eleven, 

Faust.  O  Faustus, 

Now  hast  thou  but  one  bare  hour  to  live. 
Ani  then  thou  must  be  damn'd  perpetually. 


106  CHRISTOPHER  MARLOWE.  Chap.  VI. 

Stand  still,  jou  ever-moving  spheres  of  heaven, 

That  time  may  cease  and  midnight  never  come. 

Fair  nature's  Eye,  rise,  rise  again,  and  make 

Perpetual  day  :  or  let  this  hour  be  but 

A  year,  a  month,  a  v^^eek,  a  natural  day, 

That  Faustus  may  repent  and  save  his  soul. 

O  lente  lente  curriie  noctis  equi. 

The  stars  move  still,  time  runs,  the  clock  will  strike, 

The  Devil  will  come,  and  Faustus  must  be  damn'd. 

O,  I  will  leap  to  heaven  :  who  pulls  me  down? 

See  where  Christ's  blood  streams  in  the  firmament: 

One  drop  of  blood  will  save  me  :  O,  my  Christ, 

Rend  not  my  heart  for  naming  of  my  Christ. 

Yet  will  I  call  on  him  :  O  spare  me,  Lucifer. 

Where  is  it  now.?  'tis  gone; 

And  see,  a  threatening  arm,  and  angry  brow. 

Mountains  and  hills,  come,  come,  and  fall  on  me, 

And  hide  me  from  the  heavy  wrath  of  heaven. 

No.''  then  will  I  headlong  run  into  the  earth : 

Gape  earth.     O  no,  it  will  not  harbour  me. 

You  stars  that  reign'd  at  my  nativity. 

Whose  influence  have  allotted  death  and  hell, 

Now  draw  up  Faustus  like  a  foggy  mist 

Into  the  entrails  of  yon  labouring  cloud; 

That  when  you  vomit  forth  into  the  air. 

My  limbs  may  issue  from  your  smoky  mouths, 

But  let  my  soul  mount  and  ascend  to  heaven. 

The  ivatck  strikes. 

O  half  the  hour  is  past :  'twill  all  be  past  anon. 

O  if  my  soul  must  sufi^'er  for  my  sin. 

Impose  some  end  to  my  incessant  pain. 

Let  Faustus  live  in  hell  a  thousand  years, 

A  hundred  thousand,  and  at  the  last  be  saved : 

No  end  is  limited  to  damned  souls. 

Why  wert  thou  not  a  creature  wanting  soul? 

Or  why  is  this  immortal  that  thou  hast? 

O  Pythgoras'  Metempsychosis !  were  that  true. 

This  soul  should  fly  from  me,  and  I  be  changed 

Into  some  brutish  beast. 

All  beasts  are  happy,  for  when  they  die, 

Their  souls  are  soon  dissolved  in  elements : 

But  mine  must  live  still  to  be  plagued  in  hell. 

Curst  be  the  parents  that  engender'd  me  : 

No,  Faustus,  curse  thyself,  curse  Lucifer, 

That  hath  deprived  thee  of  the  joys  of  heaven. 


A,  D.  1563-1593.     CHRISTOPHER  MARLOWE,  107 


Tke  clock  strikes  twelve. 


It  strikes,  it  strikes ;  now,  body,  turn  to  air, 
Or  Lucifer  will  bear  thee  quick  to  hell. 
O  soul,  be  changed  into  small  water  drops, 
And  fall  into  the  ocean;  ne'er  be  found. 

Thunder^  and  enter  the  devils, 

0  mercy,  Heaven !  look  not  so  fierce  on  me. 
Adders  and  serpents,  let  me  breathe  awhiJei 
Ugly  heli  gape  not;  come  not,  Lucifer; 

1  '11  burn  my  books  :  O,  Mephostophilisl 


108  SUAKSFEARE,  Chap.  VII. 


CHAPTER    VII. 

SHAKSPEARE,       I564-1616 
(Manual,  pp.  128-151.) 


A.— COMEDIES. 
From  As  You  Like  It. 

4  2»     The  World  a  Stage.  — Act  II.  Sc.  7. 

yaques.  All  the  world  's  a  stage, 

And  all  the  men  and  women  merely  players  : 
They  have  their  exits,  and  their  entrances; 
And  one  man  in  his  time  plays  many  parts, 
His  acts  being  seven  ages.     At  first,  the  infant, 
Mewling  and  puking  in  the  nurse's  arms  : 
Then,  the  whining  school-boy,  with  his  satchel, 
And  shining  morning  face,  creeping  like  snail 
Unwillingly  to  school :  and  then,  the  lover. 
Sighing  like  furnace,  with  a  woful  ballad 
Made  to  his  mistress'  eyebrow:  then,  a  soldier. 
Full  of  strange  oaths,  and  bearded  like  the  pard, 
Jealous  in  honor,  sudden  and  quick  in  quarrel, 
Seeking  the  bubble  reputation 

E'en  in  the  cannon's  mouth  :  and  then,  tlie  justice, 
In  fair  round  belly,  with  good  capon  lined, 
"With  eyes  severe,  and  beard  of  formal  cut, 
Full  of  wise  saws  and  modern  instances. 
And  so  he  plays  his  part:  The  sixth  age  shifts 
Into  the  lean  and  slippered  pantaloon ; 
With  spectacles  on  nose,  and  pouch  on  side; 
His  youthful  hose  well  saved,  a  world  too  wide 
For  his  shrunk  shank;  and  his  big,  manly  voice, 
Turning  again  toward  childish  treble,  pipes 
And  whistles  in  his  sound  :  Last  scene  of  all. 
That  ends  this  strange,  eventful  history, 
Is  second  childishness,  and  mere  oblivion; 
Sans  teeth,  sans  eyes,  sans  taste,  sans  everything. 


A.  1).  1564-1610.  SEAKSPEABE  lO'J 

From  Measure  for  Measure. 

4  3»    The  Abuse  of  Authority.  — Act  II.  Sc.  2. 

Isabella.  O,  it  is  excellent 

To  have  a  giant's  strength;  but  it  is  tyrannous 
To  use  it  like  a  giant. 

:lf.  if  :»^  ■*  *  *  * 

Could  great  men  thunder 
As  Jove  himself  does,  Jove  would  ne'er  be  quiet, 
For  every  pelting,  petty  officer 

Would  use  his  heaven  for  thunder:  nothing  but  thunder. 
Merciful  Heaven ! 

Thou  rather,  with  thy  sharp  and  sulphurous  bolt, 
Splitt'st  the  unwedgeable  and  gharled  oak, 
Than  the  soft  myrtle  :  But  man,  proud  man, 
Dressed  in  a  little  brief  authority; 
Most  ignorant  of  what  he  's  most  assured,  — 
His  glassy  essence,  —  like  an  angry  ape. 
Plays  such  fantastic  tricks  before  high  Heaven, 
As  make  the  angels  weep  :  who,  with  our  spleens, 
Would  all  themselves  laugh  mortal. 


From  The  Merchant  of  Venice. 

74.    A/ercy.  —  ActlV.  Sc.  I. 

Portia,  The  quality  of  mercy  is  not  strained ; 

It  droppeth  as  the  gentle  rain  from  heaven 
Upon  the  place  beneath  :  it  is  twice  blessed; 
It  blesseth  him  that  gives  and  him  that  takes  : 
'T  is  mightiest  in  the  mightiest;  it  becomes 
The  throned  inonarch  better  than  his  crown ; 
His  sceptre  shows  the  force  of  temporal  power, 
The  attribute  to  awe  and  majesty. 
Wherein  doth  sit  the  dread  and  fear  of  kings; 
But  mercy  is  above  this  sceptred  sway; 
It  is  enthroned  in  the  hearts  of  kings. 
It  is  an  attribute  to  God  himself; 
And  earthly  power  doth  then  show  likest  God's 
When  mercy  seasons  justice.     Therefore,  Jew, 
Though  justice  be  thy  plea,  consider  this  — 
That  in  the  course  of  justice,  none  of  us 
Should  see  salvation  :  we  do  pray  for  mercy; 
And  that  same  prayer  doth  teach  us  all  to  render 
The  deeds  of  mercy. 


110  SEAESPEABE.  Chap.  VL 

From  A  Midsummer  Night's  Dream. 
4  Om    Ober art's  Vision.  —  Act  II.  Sc.  2. 

Obe.    My  gentle  Puck,  come  hither:  Thou  remember'st 

Since  once  I  sat  upon  a  promontory, 

And  heard  a  mermaid,  on  a  dolphin's  back, 

Uttering  such  dulcet  and  harmonious  breath, 

That  the  rude  sea  grew  civil  at  her  song; 

And  certain  stars  shot  madly  from  their  spheres, 

To  hear  the  sea-maid's  music. 
Puck.  I  remember. 

Obe.    That  very  time  I  saw  (but  thou  couldst  not), 

Flying  between  the  cold  moon  and  the  earth, 

Cupid  all  armed ;  a  certain  aim  he  took 

At  a  fair  vestal,  throned  by  the  west; 

And  loosed  his  love-shaft  smartly  from  his  bow. 

As  it  should  pierce  a  hundred  thousand  hearts : 

But  I  might  see  young  CufJid's  fiery  shaft 

Quenched  in  the  chaste  beams  of  the  watery  moon ; 

And  the  imperial  votaress  passed  on, 

In  maiden  meditation,  fancy-free.^ 

Yet  marked  I  where  the  bolt  of  Cupid  fell : 

It  fell  upon  a  little  western  flower,  — 

Before,  milk-white;  now,  purple  with  love's  wound,  — 

And  maidens  call  it  love-in-idleness. 

Fetch  me  that  flower;  the  herb  I  showed  thee  once; 

The  juice  of  it  on  sleeping  eyelids  laid, 

Will  make  or  man  or  woman  madly  dote 

Upon  the  next  live  creature  that  it  sees. 

Fetch  me  this  herb  :  and  be  thou  here  again, 

Ere  the  leviathan  can  swim  a  league. 
Puck.  I'll  put  a  girdle  round  about  the  earth 

In  forty  minutes. 

1  Queen  Elizabeth. 


y  O.    The  Power  of  Imagination.  —  Act.  V.  Sc.  z. 

Theseus.  I  never  may  believe 

These  antique  fables,  nor  these  fairy  toys. 
Lovers  and  madmen  have  such  seething  brains. 
Such  shaping  fantasies,  that  apprehend 
More  than  cool  reason  ever  comprehends. 
The  lunatic,  the  lover,  and  the  poet, 
Are  of  imagination  all  compact: 
One  sees  more  devils  than  vast  hell  can  hold  — 


A.D.I  564-1 616.  SHAKSPEARE.  1 1  ] 

That  is  the  madman  :  the  lover,  all  as  frantic. 

Sees  Helen's  beauty  in  a  brow  of  Egypt: 

The  poet's  eye,  in  a  fine  frenzy  rolling. 

Doth  glance  from  heaven  to  earth,  from  earth  to  heaven, 

And,  as  imagination  bodies  forth 

The  forms  of  things  unknown,  the  poet's  pen 

Turns  them  to  shapes,  and  gives  to  airy  nothing 

A  local  habitation  and  a  name. 

Such  tricks  hath  strong  imagination; 

That,  if  it  would  but  apprehend  some  joy, 

It  comprehends  some  bringer  of  that  joy; 

Or,  in  the  night,  imagining  soine  fear, 

How  easy  is  a  bush  supposed  a  bear! 


B.  — HISTORICAL    PLAYS. 
From  King  John. 

4  4»    Lamentation  of  Constance.  — Act  III.  Sc.  4. 

K.  Philip.  Bind  up  your  hairs. 

Const.     Yes,  that  I  will;  And  wherefore  will  I  do  it.'' 

I  tore  them  from  their  bonds;  and  cried  aloud, 

0  that  these  hands  could  so  redeem  my  son. 
As  they  have  given  these  hairs  their  liberty! 
But  now  I  envy  at  their  liberty. 

And  will  again  commit  them  to  their  bonds 

Because  my  poor  child  is  a  prisoner. 

And,  father  cardinal,  I  have  heard  you  say, 

That  we  shall  see  and  know  our  friends  in  heaven: 

If  that  be  true,  I  shall  see  my  boy  again ; 

For,  since  the  birth  of  Cain,  the  first  male  child, 

To  him  that  did  but  yesterday  suspire, 

There  was  not  such  a  gracious  creature  born. 

But  now  will  canker  sorrow  eat  my  bud. 

And  chase  the  native  beauty  from  his  cheek, 

And  he  will  look  as  hollow  as  a  ghost; 

As  dim  and  meagre  as  an  ague's  fit; 

And  so  he'll  die;  and,  rising  so  again. 

When  I  shall  meet  him  in  the  court  of  heaven 

1  shall  not  know  him  :  therefore  never,  never 
Must  I  behold  my  pretty  Arthur  more. 

PandtdpJi.  You  hold  too  heinous  a  respect  of  grief. 
Const.     He  talks  to  me  that  never  had  a  son. 
K.  Phi.  You  are  as  fond  of  grief  as  of  your  child. 
Const.     Grief  fills  the  room  up  of  my  absent  child, 

Lies  in  his  bed,  walks  up  and  down  with  me, 


112  SEAKSFEABE.  Chap.  VII. 

Puts  on  his  pretty  looks,  repeats  his  words, 
Remembers  me  of  all  his  gracious  parts, 
Stuffs  out  his  vacant  garments  with  his  form; 
Then,  have  I  reason  to  be  fond  of  grief. 
Fare  you  well :  had  you  such  a  loss  as  I, 
I  could  give  better  comfort  than  you  do.  — 
I  will  not  keep  this  form  upon  my  head, 

\_Tearing  off  her  head-dress. 
When  there  is  such  disorder  in  my  wit. 
O  Lord  !  my  boy,  my  Arthur,  my  fair  son  ! 
My  life,  my  joy,  my  food,  my  all  the  world ! 
My  widow-comfort,  and  my  sorrows'  cure  ! 


From  King  Richard  III. 

#  o  •    Clarence's  Dream.  —  Act.  I.  Sc.  4. 

Clarence  and  Brakenbury. 

Brak       Why  looks  your  grace  so  heavily  to-day.? 

Clar.       O,  I  have  passed  a  miseraJ'  le  night, 

So  full  of  fearful  dreams,  of  ugly  sights, 
That,  as  I  am  a  Christian  faithful  man, 
I  would  not  spend  another  such  a  night. 
Though  'twere  to  buy  a  world  of  happy  days; 
So  full  of  dismal  terror  was  the  time. 

Brak.      What  was  your  dream,  my  lord.?     I  pray  you,  tell  me. 

Clar.       Methought  that  I  had  broken  from  the  Tower, 
And  was  embarked  to  cross  to  Burgundy; 
And  in  my  company  my  brother  Gloster : 
Who  from  my  cabin  tempted  me  to  walk 
Upon  the  hatches ;  there  we  looked  toward  England, 
And  cited  up  a  thousand  heavy  times, 
During  the  wars  of  York  and  Lancaster, 
That  had  befallen  us.     As  we  paced  along 
Upon  the  giddy  footing  of  the  hatches, 
Methought  that  Gloster  stumbled;  and,  in  falling, 
Struck  me,  that  thought  to  stay  him,  overboard, 
Into  the  tumbling  billows  of  the  main. 
O  Lord  !  methought  what  pain  it  was  to  drown  I 
What  dreadful  noise  of  water  in  inine  ears ! 
What  sights  of  ugly  death  within  mine  eyes! 
Methought  I  saw  a  thousand  fearful  wracks; 
A  thousand  men  that  fishes  gnawed  upon; 
Wedges  of  gold,  great  anchors,  heaps  of  pearl, 
Inestimable  stones,  unvalued  jewels. 
All  scattered  in  the  bottom  of  the  sea. 


A.  D.  1564-1616.  SHAKSPEARE.  113 

Some  lay  in  dead  men's  skulls;  and  in  those  holes 
Where  ejes  did  once  inhabit  there  were  crept, 
As  'twere  in  scorn  of  eyes,  reflecting  gems, 
That  wooed  the  slimy  bottom  of  the  deep, 
And  mocked  the  dead  bones  that  lay  scattered  by. 

Brak.      Had  you  such  leisure  in  the  time  of  death 
To  gaze  upon  these  secrets  of  the  deep? 

Clar.      Methought  1  had  ;  and  often  did  I  strive 

To  yield  the  ghost:  but  still  the  envious  flood 
Stopped  in  my  soul,  and  would  not  let  it  forth 
To  find  the  empty,  vast,  and  wandering  air: 
But  smothered  it  within  my  panting  bulk, 
Which  almost  burst  to  belch  it  in  the  sea. 

Brak.      Awaked  you  not  in  this  sore  agony.'' 

Clar.       No,  no,  my  dream  was  lengthened  after  life  : 
O,  then  began  the  tempest  to  my  soul ! 
I  passed,  methought,  the  melancholy  flood 
With  that  sour  ferryman  which  poets  write  of, 
Unto  the  kingdom  of  perpetual  night. 
The  first  that  there  did  greet  my  stranger  soul 
Was  n\y  great  father-in-law,  renowned  Warwick  ; 
Who  spake  aloud,  —  "  What  scourge  for  perjury 
Can  this  dark  monarchy  afford  false  Clarence.^" 
And  so  he  vanished  :  Then  came  wandering  by 
A  shadow  like  an  angel,  with  bright  hair 
Dabbled  in  blood ;  and  he  shrieked  out  aloud,  — 
"  Clarence  is  come,  —  false,  fleeting,  perjured  Clarence,  — 
That  stabbed  me  in  the  field  by  Tewksbury ;  — 
Seize  on  him,  furies,  take  him  unto  torment!  "  — 
With  that,  methought,  a  legion  of  foul  fiends 
Environed  me,  and  howled  in  mine  ears 
Such  hideous  cries,  that,  with  the  very  noise 
I  trembling  waked,  and,  for  a  season  after, 
Could  not  believe  but  that  I  was  in  hell; 
Such  terrible  impression  made  iny  dream. 

Brak.      No  marvel,  lord,  though  it  affrighted  you; 
I  am  afraid,  methinks,  to  hear  you  tell  it. 

Clar.       O,  Brakenbury,  I  have  done  these  things,  — 
That  now  give  evidence  against  my  soul,  — 
For  Edward's  sake ;  and  see  how  he  requites  me  ! 

0  God !  if  my  deep  prayers  cannot  appease  thee, 
But  thoi.  wilt  be  avenged  on  my  misdeeds, 

Yet  execute  thv  wrath  on  me  alone  : 

O,  spare  my  guiltless  wife  and  my  poor  children ! 

1  pray  thee,  gentle  keeper,  stay  by  me; 
My  soul  is  heavy,  and  I  fain  would  sleep. 

8 


114  SHAKSPEARE.  Chap.  VII. 

From  King  Henry  VIII. 
4  0»     Wolsey  and  Cromivell.  —  Act  III.  Sc.  2. 

Woh       Faiewell,  a  long  farewell,  to  all  my  greatness ! 
This  is  the  state  of  man  :  To-daj^  he  puts  forth 
The  tender  leaves  of  hopes,  to-morrow  blossoms, 
And  bears  his  blushing  honors  thick  upon  him ; 
The  third  day  comes  a  frost,  a  killing  frost; 
And,  —  when  he  thinks,  good  easy  man,  full  suroly 
His  greatness  is  a  ripening,  —  nips  his  root, 
And  then  he  falls,  as  I  do.     I  have  ventured, 
Like  little  wanton  boys  that  swim  on  bladders, 
This  many  summers  in  a  sea  of  glory. 
But  far  beyond  my  depth  :  my  high-blown  pride 
At  length  broke  under  ine;  and  now  has  left  me, 
Weary,  and  old  with  service,  to  the  mercy 
Of  a  rude  stream,  that  must  forever  hide  me. 
Vain  pomp  and  glory  of  this  world,  I  hate  ye; 
I  feel  my  heart  new  opened  :  O,  how  wretched 
Is  that  poor  man  that  hangs  on  princes'  favors ! 
There  is,  betwixt  that  smile  we  would  aspire  to, 
That  sweet  aspect  of  princes,  and  their  ruin, 
More  pangs  and  fears  than  wars  or  women  have; 
And  when  he  falls,  he  falls  like  Lucifer, 
Never  to  hope  again.  —        *         *         * 
*        *         *     Why,  how  now,  Cromwell.'' 

Crom.    I  have  no  power  to  speak,  sir. 

Wol.  What,  amazed 

At  my  misfortunes.?  can  thy  spirit  wonder 
A  great  man  should  decline?    Nay,  an  you  weep, 
I  am  fallen  indeed. 

Crom.  How  does  j^our  grace? 

Wol.  Why,  well ; 

,       Never  so  truly  happy,  my  good  Cromwell. 
I  know  myself  now;  and  I  feel  within  me 
A  peace  above  all  earthly  dignities, 
A  still  and  quiet  conscience.     The  king  has  cured  me, 
I  humbly  thank  his  grace;  and  from  these  shoulders. 
These  luiined  pillars,  out  of  pity,  taken 
A  load  would  sink  a  navj--,  too  much  honor: 
O,  'tis  a  burden,  Cromwell,  'tis  a  burden, 
Too  heavy  for  a  man  that  hopes  for  heaven. 

#(•  5(4  'T*  'I*  ^  •!*  "ft 

Cromwell,  I  did  not  think  to  shed  a  tear 
In  all  my  miseries ;  but  thou  hast  forced  me 
Out  oi  thy  honest  truth  to  play  the  woman. 


A.  D.  1564-1616.  SHAKSPEABF.  .  115 

Let's  dry  our  eyes  :  and  thus  far  hear  me,  Cromwell ; 

And  when  I  am  forgotten,  as  I  shall  be. 

And  sleep  in  dull,  cold  marble,  where  no  mention 

Of  me  more  must  be  heard  of,  say  I  taught  thee ; 

Say  Wolsey  —  that  once  trod  the  ways  of  glory. 

And  sounded  all  the  depths  and  shoals  of  honor  — 

Found  thee  a  way,  out  of  his  wrack,  to  rise  in ; 

A  sure  and  safe  one,  though  thy  master  missed  it. 

Mark  but  my  fall,  and  that  that  ruined  me. 

Cromwell,  I  charge  thee,  fling  away  ambition ; 

By  that  sin  fell  the  angels ;  how  can  man  then, 

The  image  of  his  Maker,  hope  to  win  by't.'* 

Love  thyself  last;  cherish  those  hearts  that  hate  thee; 

Corruption  wins  not  more  than  honesty. 

Still  in  thy  right  hand  carry  gentle  peace, 

To  silence  envious  tongues.     Be  just,  and  fear  not : 

Let  all  the  ends  thou  aim'st  at  be  thy  country's, 

Thy  God's,  and  truth's;  then  if  thou  fall'st,  O  Cromwell, 

Thou  fall'st  a  blessed  martyr.     Serve  the  king; 

And  —    Prithee,  lead  me  in  : 

There  take  an  inventory  of  all  I  have, 

To  the  last  penny;  'tis  the  king's  :  my  robe, 

And  my  integrity  to  heaven,  is  all 

I  dare  now  call  my  own.     O  Cromwell,  Cromwell, 

Had  I  but  served  my  God  with  half  the  zeal 

I  served  my  king,  he  would  not  in  mine  age 

Have  left  me  naked  to  mine  enemies. 


SO*    Death  of  ^ueen  Katharine.  —  Act  IV.  Sc.  2. 
Katharine  and  Capucius. 

Kaih.      Sir,  I  most  humbly  pray  you  to  deliver 
This  to  my  lord  the  king. 

Cap.  Most  willing,  madam. 

Kali.     In  -which  I  have  commended  to  his  goodness 

The  model  of  our  chaste  loves,  his  young  daughter 
The  dews  of  heaven  fall  thick  in  blessings  on  her !  - 
Beseeching  him  to  give  her  virtuous  breeding; 
(She  is  young,  and  of  a  noble,  modest  nature; 
I  hope  she  will  deserve  well ;)  and  a  little 
To  love  her  for  her  mother's  sake,  that  loved  him, 
Heaven  knows  how  dearly.     My  next  poor  petition 
Is,  that  his  noble  grace  would  have  some  pity 
Upon  my  wretched  women,  that  so  long 
Have  followed  both  my  fortunes  faithfully: 
Of  which  there  is  not  one,  I  dare  avow. 


116  SHAKSPEARE.  Chap.  VII. 

(And  now  I  should  not  lie,)  but  will  deserve, 

For  virtue,  and  true  beauty  of  the  soul. 

For  honesty,  and  decent  carriage, 

A  right  good  husband,  let  him  be  a  noble ; 

And,  sure,  those  men  are  happy  that  shall  have  them. 

The  last  is,  for  my  men ;  —  they  are  the  poorest. 

But  poverty  could  never  draw  them  from  ine  ;  — 

That  they  may  have  their  wages  duly  paid  them, 

And  something  over  to  remember  me  by; 

If  heaven  had  pleased  to  have  given  me  longer  life, 

And  able  means,  we  had  not  parted  thus. 

These  are  the  whole  contents  :  —  And,  good  my  lord, 

By  that  you  love  the  dearest  in  this  world, 

As  you  wish  Christian  peace  to  souls  departed, 

Stand  these  poor  people's  friend,  and  urge  the  king 

To  do  me  this  last  right. 

Ca^.  By  heaven,  I  will; 

Or  let  me  lose  the  fashion  of  a  man  ! 

Kath.  I  thank  you,  honest  lord.     Remember  me 
In  all  humility  unto  his  highness  : 
Say,  his  long  ti^ouble  now  is  passing 
Out  of  this  world  :  tell  him,  in  death  I  blessed  him, 
For  so  I  will.  —  Mine  eyes  grow  dim.  —  Farewell, 
My  lord.  —  Griffith,  farewell.  —  Nay,  Patience, 
You  must  not  leave  me  yet,     I  must  to  bed ; 
Call  in  more  women.  —  When  I  am  dead,  good  wench, 
Let  me  be  used  with  honor;  strew  me  over 
With  maiden  flowers,  that  all  the  world  may  know 
I  was  a  chaste  wife  to  my  grave  :  embalm  me. 
Then  lay  me  forth  :  although  unqueened,  yet  like 
A  queen,  and  daughter  to  a  king,  inter  me. 
I  can  no  more. 


C  — TRAGEDIES. 
From  Hamlet. 

Sl»    Hamlet  afid  the   Ghost.  —  Act  I.  So.  4. 
Hamlet,  Horatio,  and  Marcellus. 

Enter  Ghost. 

Hor.  Look,  my  lord,  it  comes  ! 

Ham.    Angels  and  ministers  of  grace  defend  us  !  — 
Be  thou  a  spirit  of  health,  or  goblin  damned, 
Bring  with  thee  airs  from  heaven,  or  blasts  from  hell. 
Be  thy  intents  wicked,  or  charitable, 


^.  I).  1564-1616.  SHAKSPEABE.  117 

Thou  comest  in  such  a  questionable  shape, 

That  I  will  speak  to  thee  ;  I'll  call  thee,  Hamlet, 

King,  father,  royal  Dane  :  O,  answer  me  : 

Let  me  not  burst  in  ignorance !  but  tell, 

Why  thy  canonized  bones,  hearsed  in  death. 

Have  burst  their  cerements  !  why  the  sepulchre, 

Wherein  we  saw  thee  quietly  in-urned. 

Hath  oped  his  ponderous  and  marble  jaws. 

To  cast  thee  up  again  !     What  may  this  mean, 

That  thou,  dead  corse,  again,  in  complete  steel, 

Revisit'st  thus  the  glimpses  of  the  moon. 

Making  night  hideous ;  and  we  fools  of  nature, 

So  horridly  to  shake  our  disposition. 

With  thoughts  beyond  the  reaches  of  our  souls? 

Say,  why  is  this?  wherefore?  what  should  we  do? 
Jlor.      It  beckons  you  to  go  away  with  it. 

As  if  it  some  impartment  did  desire 

To  you  alone. 
Mar.  Look,  with  what  courteous  action 

It  wafts  you  to  a  more  removed  ground  : 

But  do  not  go  with  it. 
Hor.  No,  by  no  means. 

Ham.    It  will  not  speak;  then  will  I  follow  it. 
I/or.      Do  not,  my  lord. 
Ham.  It  wafts  me  still :  — 

Go  on,  I'D  follow  thee. 

Where  wilt  thou  lead  me?  speak,  I'll  go  no  further. 
Ghost.  Mark  me. 
Ham.  I  will. 

Ghost.  My  hour  is  almost  come. 

When  I  to  sulphurous  and  tormenting  flames 

Must  render  up  myself. 
Hajn.  Alas,  poor  ghost ! 

Ghost.  Pity  me  not,  but  lend  thy  serious  hearing 

To  what  I  shall  unfold. 
Ham.  Speak,  I  am  bound  to  hear« 

Ghost.  So  art  thou  to  revenge,  when  thou  shalt  hear. 
Ham.    What? 
Ghos,.  I  am  thy  father's  spirit; 

Doomed  for  a  certain  term  to  walk  the  night; 

And,  for  the  day,  confined  to  fast  in  fires, 

Till  the  foul  crimes,  done  in  my  days  of  nature, 

Are  burnt  and  purged  away.     But  that  I  am  forbid 

To  tell  the  secrets  of  vay  prison-house, 

I  could  a  tale  unfold,  whose  lightest  word 

Would  harrow  up  thy  soul ;  freeze  thy  young  blood  ; 

Make  thy  two  eyes,  like  stars,  start  from  their  spheres^ 


118  SHAKSPEARE. 

Thy  knotted  and  combined  locks  to  part, 

And  each  particular  hair  to  stand  an  end, 

Like  quills  upon  the  fretful  porcupine; 

But  this  eternal  blazon  must  not  be 

To  ears  of  flesh  and  blood:  —  List,  Hamlet,  O  list  I 

If  thou  didst  ever  thy  dear  father  love,  — 

Ham.    O  heaven ! 

Ghost.  Revenge  his  foul  and  most  unnatural  murther. 


Chap.  VIL 


S^»    Hamlefs  Soliloquy  on  DeatJi.  —  Act  IIL  Sc.  i. 

Ham,  To  be,  or  not  to  be,  that  is  the  question  : 
Whether  'tis  nobler  in  the  mind,  to  suffer 
The  slings  and  arrows  of  outrageous  fortune, 
Or  to  take  arms  against  a  sea  of  troubles, 
And  by  opposing  end  them?     To  die,  —  to  sleep,  — 
No  more ;  and,  by  a  sleep,  to  say  we  end 
The  heart-ache,  and  the  thousand  natural  shocks 
That  flesh  is  heir  to,  —  'tis  a  consummation 
Devoutly  to  be  wished.     To  die,  —  to  sleep ;  — 
To  sleep  !  perchance  to  dream ;  —  ay,  there's  the  rub ; 
For  in  that  sleep  of  death  what  dreams  may  come, 
When  we  have  shuffled  off"  this  mortal  coil, 
Must  give  us  pause  :  there's  the  respect, 
That  makes  calamity  of  so  long  life  : 
For  who  would  bear  the  whips  and  scorns  of  time, 
The  oppressor's  wrong,  the  proud  man's  contumely. 
The  pangs  of  disprized  love,  the  law's  delay, 
The  insolence  of  office,  and  the  spurns 
That  patient  merit  of  the  unworthy  takes, 
When  he  himself  might  his  quietus  make 
With  a  bare  bodkin?     Who  would  these  fardels  bear, 
To  grunt  and  sweat  under  a  weary  life ; 
But  that  the  dread  of  something  after  death, 
The  undiscovered  country,  from  whose  bourn 
No  traveller  returns,  puzzles  the  will ; 
And  makes  us  rather  bear  those  ills  we  have. 
Than  fly  to  others  that  we  know  not  of  ? 
Thus  conscience  does  make  cowards  of  us  all; 
And  thus  the  native  hue  of  resolution 
Is  sicklied  o'er  with  the  pale  cast  of  thought; 
And  enterprises  of  great  pith  and  moment, 
With  this  regard,  their  currents  turn  awry, 
And  lose  the  name  of  action. 


A.  D.  1564-1616.  SEAKSPEAEE,  119 


From  Julius  C^sar. 

83*    Mark  Antonfs  Oration  over  the  dead  body  of  Ccesar*. 

Act  III.  Sc.  2. 

Ant.  Friends,  Romans,  countrymen,  lend  me  your  ears; 

I  come  to  bury  Caesar,  not  to  praise  him. 

The  evil  that  men  do  lives  after  them ; 

The  good  is  often  interred  w^ith  their  bones : 

So  let  it  be  with  Caesar.     The  noble  Brutus 

Hath  told  you  Caesar  was  ambitious  : 

If  it  were  so,  it  was  a  grievous  fault; 

And  grievously  hath  Caesar  answered  it. 

Here,  under  leave  of  Brutus  and  the  rest, 

(For  Brutus  is  an  honorable  man; 

So  are  they  all,  all  honorable  men;) 

Come  I  to  speak  in  Caesar's  funeral. 
******* 

If  you  have  tears,  prepare  to  shed  them  now. 

You  all  do  know  this  mantle  :  I  remember 

The  first  time  ever  Caesar  put  it  on ; 

'Twas  on  a  summer's  evening,  in  his  tent, 

That  day  he  overcame  the  Nervii :  — 

Look!  in  this  place  ran  Cassius'  dagger  through: 

See,  what  a  rent  the  envious  Casca  made  : 

Through  this,  the  well-beloved  Brutus  stabbed; 

And,  as  he  plucked  his  cursed  steel  away, 

Mark  how  the  blood  of  Caesar  followed  it, 

As  rushing  out  of  doors,  to  be  resolved 

If  Brutus  so  unkindly  knocked,  or  no; 

For  Brutus,  as  you  knov/,  was  Caesar's  angel : 

Judge,  O  you  gods,  how  dearly  Caesar  loved  him ! 

This  was  the  most  unkindest  cut  of  all : 

For  when  the  noble  Caesar  saw  him  stab, 

■    Ingratitude,  more  strong  than  traitors'  arms, 

Quite  vanquished  him  :  then  burst  his  mighty  heart f 

And,  in  his  mantle  muffling  up  his  face. 

Even  at  the  base  of  Pompey's  statue. 

Which  all  the  while  ran  blood,  great  Caesa?  fell. 

O,  what  a  fall  was  there,  my  countrymen  1 

Then  I,  and  you,  and  all  of  us  fell  down. 

Whilst  bloody  treason  flourished  over  us. 

O,  now  you  weep ;  and,  I  perceive,  you  feel, 

The  dint  of  pity  :  these  are  gracious  drops. 

Kind  souls,  what  weep  you,  when  you  but  behold 

Our  CiEsar's  vesture  wounded.     Look  you  here. 

Here  is  himself,  marred,  as  you  see,  with  traitors. 


120  SHAKSPEARE.  Chap.  VIL 

Good  friends,  sweet  friends,  let  me  not  stir  you  up 

To  such  a  sudden  flood  of  mutiny. 

Thej  that  have  done  this  deed  are  honorable; 

What  private  griefs  they  have,  alas  !  I  know  not, 

That  made  them  do  it;  they  are  wise  and  honorable, 

And  will,  no  doubt,  with  reasons  answer  you. 

I  come  not,  friends,  to  steal  away  your  hearts ; 

I  am  no  orator,  as  Brutus  is ; 

But  as  you  know  me  all,  a  plain  blunt  man. 

That  loves  my  friend ;  and  that  they  know  full  well 

That  gave  me  public  leave  to  speak  of  him. 

For  I  have  neither  wit,  nor  words,  nor  worth, 

Action,  nor  utterance,  nor  the  power  of  speech, 

To  stir  men's  blood  :  I  only  speak  right  on ; 

I  tell  you  that  which  you  yourselves  do  know; 

Show  you  sweet  Caesar's  wounds,  poor,  poor  dumb  mout;  B^ 

And  bid  them  speak  for  me  :  But  were  I  Brutus, 

And  Brutus  Antony,  there  were  an  Antony 

Would  rufl[ie  up  your  .spirits,  and  put  a  tongue 

In  every  wound  of  Ccesar,  that  should  move 

The  stones  of  Rome  to  rise  and  mutiny. 


From  Macbeth. 

o*.    Macbet/i's  Irresolutlo7i  before  the  Murder  of  Duncan, 

Act  I.  Sc.  7. 

Macb.  If  it  were  done,  when  'tis  done,  then  'twere  well 
It  were  done  quickly:  If  the  assassination 
Could  trammel  up  the  consequence,  and  catch, 
With  his  surcease,  success ;   that  but  this  blow 
Might  be  the  be-all  and  the  end-all,  here, 
But  here,  upon  this  bank  and  shoal  of  time. 
We'd  jump  the  life  to  come.  — But  in  these  cases. 
We  still  have  judgment  here;  that  we  but  teach 
Bloody  instructions,  which,  being  taught,  return 
To  plague  the  inventor:  This  even-handed  justice 
Commends  the  ingredients  of  our  poisoned  chalice 
To  our  own  lips.     He's  here  in  double  trust: 
First,  as  I  am  his  kinsman  and  his  subject. 
Strong  both  against  the  deed  :  then,  as  his  host, 
Who  should  against  his  murtherer  shut  the  door, 
Not  bear  the  knife  myself.     Besides,  this  Duncan 
Hath  borne  his  faculties  so  meek,  hath  been 
So  clear  in  his  great  oflSce,  that  his  virtues 
Will  plead  like  angels,  trumpet-tongued,  against 
The  deep  damnation  of  his  taking-off : 


A.  D.  1564-1616. 


SHAKSPEARE. 


121 


And  pity,  like  a  naked  new-born  babe, 
Striding  the  blast,  or  heaven's  cherubim,  horsed 
Upon  the  sightless  couriers  of  the  air. 
Shall  blow  the  horrid  deed  in  every  eye, 
That  tears  shall  drown  the  wind.  — I  have  no  spur 
To  prick  the  sides  of  my  intent,  but  only 
Vaulting  ambition,  which  o'erleaps  itself, 
And  falls  on  the  other. 


85,    Witches,  —  Act  IV.  So.  i. 
A  dark  Cave.     In  the  middle,  a  Caldron  boiling.      Thunder. 

Enter  the  three  Witches. 


15^  Witch, 
2nd  Witch, 
^rd  Witch. 
1st  Witch. 


All. 

2ud  Witch. 


All. 


Thrice  the  brinded  cat  hath  mewed. 
Thrice;  and  once  the  hedge-pig  whined. 
Ilarpier  cries  :  —  'Tis  time,  'tis  time. 
Round  about  the  caldron  go  ; 
In  the  poisoned  entrails  throw. 
Toad,  that  under  cold  stone. 
Days  and  nights  hast  thirty-one 
Sweltered  venom  sleeping  got, 
Boil  thou  first  i'  the  charmed  pot! 
Double,  double,  toil  and  trouble; 
Fire  burn,  and  caldron  bubble. 
Fillet  of  a  fenny  snake, 
In  the  caldron  boil  and  bake : 
Eye  of  newt,  and  toe  of  frog, 
Wool  of  bat,  and  tongue  of  dog. 
Adder's  fork,  and  blind-worm's  stingy 
Lizard's  leg,  and  owlet's  wing, 
For  a  charm  of  powerful  trouble; 
Like  a  hell-broth  boil  and  bubble. 
Double,  double,  toil  and  trouble; 
Fire  burn,  and  caldron  bubble. 


D.  — SONGS. 
SG,    Ariel's  Song. 

Where  the  bee  svicks,  there  suck  I ; 

In  a  cowslip's  bell  I  lie  : 

There  I  couch  when  owls  do  cry, 

On  the  bat's  back  I  do  fly 

After  summer  merrily : 

Merrily,  merrily,  shall  I  live  now, 

Under  the  blossom  that  hangs  on  the  bough. 

The  Tempest.    Act  V.  Sc.  l- 


122  SEAKSPEARE.  VII. 


S7»    The  Fairy  to  Puck. 

Over  hill,  over  dale, 

Thorough  bush,  thorough  brier, 

Over  park,  over  pale, 

Thorough  flood,  thorough  fire, 

I  do  w^ander  everywhere. 

Swifter  than  the  moon's  sphere; 

And  I  serve  the  fairy  queen, 

To  dew  her  orbs  upon  the  green  : 

The  cowslips  tall  her  pensioners  be; 

In  their  gold  coats  spots  you  see; 

Those  be  rubies,  fairy  favors. 

In  those  freckles  live  their  savors : 
I  must  go  seek  some  dew-drops  here, 
And  hang  a  pearl  in  every  cowslip's  ear. 

Midsummer  Night's  Dream.    Act  ]I.  5c.  \ 


88.    Sonnet  XCIX. 

The  forward  violet  thus  did  I  chide ;  — 
Sweet  thief,  whence  didst  thou  steal  thy  sweet  that  smells, 
If  not  from  my  love's  breath?    The  purple  pride 
Which  on  thy  soft  cheek  for  complexion  dwells, 
In  my  love's  veins  thou  hast  too  grossly  dyed. 
The  lily  I  condemned  for  thy  hand, 
And  buds  of  marjoram  had  stolen  thy  hair : 
The  roses  fearfully  on  thorns  did  stand. 
One  blushing  shame,  another  white  despair; 
A  third,  nor  red  nor  white,  had  stolen  of  both, 
And  to  his  robbery  had  annexed  thy  breath; 
But  for  his  theft,  in  pride  of  all  his  growth 
A  vengeful  canker  eat  him  up  to  death. 
More  flowers  I  noted,  yet  I  none  could  see, 
But  sweet  or  color  it  had  stolen  from  thee. 


fL.  D.  1573-1637.  BEN  JON  SON.  123 


CHAPTER   VIII. 

THE   SHAKSPEARIAN    DRAMATISTS. 


^Ben,Jonson.     1573-1637.     (Manual,  p.  152.) 

Ot9.    From  the  Sad  Shepherd;  or,  a  Tale  op  Robin  Hood. 

Aiken,  an  old  Shepherd,  instructs  Robin  Hood's  men  how  to  ^nd  *  Witch, 

and  how  she  is  to  be  hunted. 

Aiken.     Within  a  gloomy  dimble '  she  doth  dwell, 

Down  in  a  pit  o'ergrown  with  brakes  and  briars, 

Close  by  the  ruins  of  a  shaken  abbey, 

Torn  with  an  earthquake  down  unto  the  ground, 

'Mongst  graves,  and  grots,  near  an  old  charnel-house, 

Where  you  shall  find  her  sitting  in  her  fourm. 

As  fearful,  and  melancholic,  as  that 

She  is  about;  with  caterpillars'  kells. 

And  knotty  cobwebs,  rounded  in  with  spells. 

Then  she  steals  forth  to  relief,  in  the  fogs. 

And  rotten  mists,  upon  the  fens  and  bogs, 

Down  to  the  drowned  lands  of  Lincolnshire; 

To  make  ewes  cast  their  lambs,  swine  eat  their  farrow; 

The  housewife's  tun  not  work,  nor  the  milk  churn ; 

Writhe  children's  wrists,  and  suck  their  breath  in  sleep; 

Get  vials  of  their  blood;  and  where  the  sea 

Casts  up  his  slimy  ooze,  search  for  a  weed 

To  open  locks  with,  and  to  rivet  charms, 

Planted  about  her,  in  the  wicked  seat 

Of  all  her  mischiefs,  which  are  manifold. 

*  *  *  *  Nc  *  * 

The  venomed  plants 
Wherewith  she  kills;  where  the  sad  mandrake  grows. 
Whose  groans  are  deathful ;  the  dead  numbing  nightshade*, 
The  stupefying  hemlock;  adder's  tongue. 
And  martegan ;  ^  the  shrieks  of  luckless  owls. 
We  hear,  and  croaking  night-crows  in  the  air; 
Green-bellied  snakes ;  blue  fire-drakes  in  the  sky; 
And  giddy  flitter-mice^  with  leather  wings  ; 

1  Dingle,  or  dell.  2  A  kind  of  lily.  a  Bats. 


124  BEN  JONSON:  Chap.  VIII. 

The  scaly  beetles,  with  their  habergeons 
That  make  a  humming  murmur  as  they  fly; 
There,  in  the  stocks  of  trees,  white  fays  do  dwell, 
And  span-long  elves  that  dance  about  a  pool. 
With  each  a  little  changeling  in  their   arms : 
The  airy  spirits  play  with  falling  stars. 
And  mount  the  sphere  of  fire,  to  kiss  the  moon ; 
While  she  sits  reading  by  the  glowworm's  light, 
Or  rotten  wood,  o'er  which  the  worm  hath  crept, 
The  baneful  schedule  of  her  nocent  charms, 
And  binding  characters,  through  which  she  wounds 
Her  puppets,  the  Sigilla  "*  of  her  witchcraft. 
All  this  I  know,  and  I  will  find  her  for  you ; 
And  show  you  her  sitting  in  her  fourm ;  I'll  lay 
My  hand  upon  her;  make  her  throw  her  scut 
Along  her  back,  when  she  doth  start  before  us. 
But  you  must  give  her  law;  and  you  shall  see  her 
Make  twenty  leaps  and  doubles,  cross  the  paths, 
And  then  squat  down  beside  us. 

4  Seals,  or  talismans. 


00*   From  Sejanus. 

Sejanus,  the  morning  he  is  condemned  by  the  Senate,  receives  some  totRUE 

which  presage  his  death. 

Sejanus,  Pomponius,  Minutius,  Terentius,  &c. 

Ter.      Are  these  things  true.'' 

Min.      Thousands  are  gazing  at  it  in  the  streets. 

Sej\       What's  that.? 

Ter       Minutius  tells  us  here,  my  lord. 

That  a  new  head  being  set  upon  your  statue, 

A  rope  is  since  found  wreathed  about  it !  and 

But  now  a  fiery  meteor  in  the  form 

Of  a  great  ball  was  seen  to  roll  along 

The  troubled  air,  where  yet  it  hangs  unperfect, 

The  amazing  wonder  of  the  multitude. 

SeJ.       No  more.  — 

Send  for  the  tribunes  :  we  will  straight  have  up 

More  of  the  soldiers  for  our  guard.     Minutius, 

We  pray  you  go  for  Cotta,  Latiaris, 

Trio  the  consul,  or  what  senators 

You  know  are  sure,  and  ours.     You,  my  good  Natta, 

For  Laco,  provost  of  the  watch.     Now,  Satrius, 

The  time  of  proof  comes  on.     Arm  all  our  servants, 

And  without  tumult.     You,  Pomponius, 

Hold  some  good  corresoondence  with  the  consul* 


A. D.  1576-1625.     BEAUMONT  AND   FLETCHER.  125 

Attempt  him,  noble  friend.     These  things  begin 
'To  look  like  dangers,  now,  worthy  my  fates. 
Fortune,  I  see  thy  worst :  let  doubtful  states 
And  things  uncertain  hang  upon  thy  will ; 
Me  surest  death  shall  render  certain  still. 
******* 

If  you  will,  destinies,  that  after  all 

I  faint  now  ere  I  touch  my  period. 

You  are  but  cruel ;  and  I  already  have  done 

Things  great  enough.     All  Rome  hath  been  my  slave; 

The  senate  sat  an  idle  looker-on, 

And  witness  of  my  power;  when  I  have  blushed 

More  to  command,  than  it  to  suffer;  all 

The  fathers  have  sat  ready  and  prepared 

To  give  me  empire,  temples,  or  their  throats, 

When  I  would  ask  them ;   and  (what  crowns  the  top) 

Rome,  senate,  people,  all  the  world,  have  seen 

Jove  but  my  equal,  Caesar  but  my  second. 

'Tis  then  your  malice,  Fates,  who  (but  your  own) 

Envy  and  fear  to  have  any  power  long  known. 


Beaumont,   15S6-1615,  and  Fletcher,   1576-1625.     (Man- 
ual, p.  157.) 

01»   From  THE  Faithful  Shepherdess. 
Clorin,  a  Shepherdess,  watching  by  the  grave  of  her  Lover,  is  fuuiul  by  a  Satyr, 

Clor      Hail,  holy  earth,  whose  cold  arms  do  embrace 
The  truest  man  that  ever  fed  his  flocks 
By  the  fat  plains  of  fruitful  Thessaly. 
Thus  I  salute  thy  grave,  thus  do  I  pay 
My  early  vows,  and  tribute  of  mine  eyes, 
To  thy  still  loved  ashes  :  thus  I  free 
Myself  from  all  ensuing  heats  and  fires 
Of  love  :  all  sports,  delights,  and  jolly  games, 
That  shepherds  hold  full  dear,  thus  put  I  off. 
Now  no  more  shall  these  smooth  brows  be  begirt 
With  youthful  coronals,  and  lead  the  dance. 
No  more  the  company  of  fresh  fair  maids     . 
And  wanton  shepherds  be  to  me  delightful : 
Nor  the  shrill  pleasing  sound  of  merry  pipes 
Under  some  shadj'  dell,  when  the  cool  wind 
Plays  on  the  leaves  :  all  be  far  away. 
Since  thou  art  far  away,  by  whose  dear  side 
How  often  have  I  sat  crowned  with  fresh  flowers 
For  summer's  queen,  whilst  every  shepherd's  boy 


126  BEAUMONT  AND  FLETCHER.         Chap.  VUI. 

Puts  on  his  lusty  green,  with  gaudy  hook,  • 

And  hanging  script  of  finest  cordevan  ! 

But  thou  art  gone,  and  these  are  gone  with  thee. 

And  all  are  dead  but  thy  dear  memory : 

That  shall  outlive  thee,  and  shall  ever  spring, 

Whilst  there  are  pipes,  or  jolly  shepherds  sing. 

And  here  will  I,  in  honor  of  thy  love, 

Dwell  by  thy  grave,  forgetting  all  those  joys 

That  former  times  made  precious  to  mine  eyes, 

Only  remembering  what  my  youth  did  gain 

In  the  dark  hidden  virtuous  use  of  herbs. 

That  will  I  practise,  and  as  freely  give 

All  my  endeavors,  as  I  gained  them  free. 

Of  all  green  wounds  I  know  the  remedies 

In  men  or  cattle,  be  they  stung  with  snakes. 

Or  charmed  with  powerful  words  of  wicked  art; 

Or  be  they  lovesick,  or  through  too  much  heat 

Grown  wild,  or  lunatic;  their  eyes,  or  ears, 

Thickened  with  misty  film  of  dulling  rheum: 

These  I  can  cure,  such  secret  virtue  lies 

In  herbs  applied  by  a  virgin's  hand. 

My  meat  shall  be  what  these  wild  woods  aflford, 

Berries  and  chestnuts,  plantains,  on  whose  cheeks 

The  sun  sits  smiling,  and  the  lofty  fruit 

Pulled  from  the  fair  head  of  the  straight-grown  p  ne. 

On  these  I'll  feed  with  free  content  and  rest. 

When  night  shall  blind  the  world,  by  thy  side  blessed. 

A  Satyr  enters. 

Satyr.  Thorough  yon  same  bending  plain 

That  flings  his  arms  down  to  the  main, 

And  through  these  thick  woods  have  I  run, 

Whose  bottom  never  kissed  the  suxi. 

Since  the  lusty  spring  began, 

All  to  please  my  master  Pan, 

Have  I  trotted  without  rest 

To  get  him  fruit ;  for  at  a  feast 

He  entertains  this  coming  night 

His  paramour  the  Syrinx  bright ; 

But  behold  a  fairer  sight! 

By  that  heavenly  form  of  thine. 

Brightest  fair,  thou  art  divine, 

Sprung  from  great  immortal  race 

Of  the  gods,  for  in  thy  face 

Shines  more  awful  majesty, 

Than  dull  weak  mortality 

Dare  with  misty  eyes  behold. 

And  live  :  therefore  on  this  mould 


A.  D.  1576-1625.     BEAUMONT  AND   FLETCHER.  127 

Lowly  do  I  bend  my  knee 

In  worship  of  thy  deity. 

Deign  it,  goddess,  from  my  hand 

To  receive  whate'er  this  land 

From  her  fertile  womb  doth  send 

Of  her  choice  fruits  ;  and  but  lend 

Belief  to  that  the  Satyr  tells, 

Fairer  by  the  famous  wells 

To  this  present  day  ne'er  grew, 

Never  better,  nor  more  true. 

Here  be  grapes,  whose  lusty  blood 

Is  the  learned  poet's  good ; 

Sweeter  yet  did  never  crown 

The  head  of  Bacchus ;  nuts  more  brown 

Than  the  squirrels'  teeth  that  crack  them. 

Deign,  O  fairest  fair,  to  take  them, 

For  these,  black-eyed  Driope 

Hath  oftentimes  commanded  me 

With  my  clasped  knee  to  climb. 

See  how  well  the  lusty  time 

Hath  decked  their  rising  cheeks  in  red. 

Such  as  on  your  lips  is  spread. 

Here  be  berries  for  a  queen, 

Some  be  red,  some  be  green ; 

These  are  of  that  luscious  meat 

The  great  god  Pan  himself  doth  eat : 

All  these,  and  what  the  woods  can  yield. 

The  hanging  mountain,  or  the  field, 

I  freely  offer,  and  ere  long 

Will  bring  you  more,  more  sweet  and  strong; 

Till  when,  humbly  leave  I  take, 

Lest  the  great  Pan  do  awake. 

That  sleeping  lies  in  a  deep  glade, 

Under  a  broad  beech's  shade. 

I  must  go,  I  must  run. 

Swifter  than  the  fiery  sun. 


Of^*    From  the  Two  Noble  Kinsmen. 

ralaiuou  and  Arcite,  repining  at  their  hard  condition,  in  being  made  captives  for 
lift-  in  Athens,  derive  consolation  from  the  enjoyment  of  each  other's  company 
in  prison. 

Pal.       O  cousin  Arcite, 

Where  is  Thebes  now:*  where  is  our  noble  country? 
Where  are  our  friends  and  kindreds?, never  more 
Must  we  behold  those  comforts,  never  see 
The  hard^'  youths  strive  for  the  games  of  honor, 


128  BEAUMONT  AND  FLETCHER.  Chap.  VIII. 

Hung  with  the  painted  favors  of  their  ladies 

Like  tall  ships  under  sail ;  then  start  amongst  them, 

And  as  an  east  wind  leave  them  all  behind  us 

Like  lazy  clouds,  whilst  Palamon  and  Arcite, 

Even  in  the  wagging  of  a  wanton  leg, 

Outstripped  the  people's  praises,  won  the  garlands 

Ere  they  have  time  to  wish  them  ours.     O,  never 

Shall  we  two  exercibe,  like  twins  of  honor, 

Our  arms  again,  and  i'eel  our  fiery  horses 

Like  proud  seas  under  us;  our  good  swords  now, 

(Better  the  red-eyeJ  god  of  war  ne'er  wore) 

Ravished  our  sides,  like  age,  must  run  to  rust, 

And  deck  the  temples  of  those  gods  that  hate  us , 

These  hands  shall  never  draw  them  out  like  lightning 

To  blast  whole  armies  more. 

Arc.  No,  Palamon, 

Those  hopes  are  prisoners  with  us;  here  we  are. 
And  here  the  graces  of  our  youths  must  wither 
Like  a  too  timely  spring;  here  age  must  find  us, 
And  (which  is  heaviest)  Palamon,  unmarried; 
The  sweet  embraces  of  a  loving  wife 
Loaden  with  kisses,  armed  with  thousand  Cupids, 
Shall  never  clasp  our  necks,  no  issue  know  us, 
No  figures  of  ourselves  shall  we  e'er  see. 
To  glad  our  age,  and  like  young  eagles  teach  them 
Boldly  to  gaze  against  bright  arms,  and  say, 
•'  Remember  what  your  fathers  were,  and  conquer.'* 
The  fair-eyed  maids  bhall  weep  our  banishments. 
And  in  their  songs  curse  ever-blinded  Fortune, 
Till  she  for  shame  see  what  a  wrong  she  has  done 
To  youth  and  nature.     This  is  all  our  world  : 
We  shall  know  nothing  here,  but  one  another; 
Hear  nothing,  but  the  clock  that  telis  our  woes. 
The  vine  shall  grow,  but  we  shall  never  see  it: 
Summer  shall  come,  and  with  her  all  delights, 
But  dead-cold  winter  must  inhabit  here  still. 

Pal.       'Tis  too  trye,  Arcite.     To  our  Theban  hounds, 
That  shook  the  aged  forest  with  their  echoes, 
No  more  now  must  we  halloo,  no  more  shake 
Our  pointed  javelins,  whilst  the  angry  swine 
Flies  like  a  Parthian  quiver  from  our  rages, 
Struck  with  our  well-steeled  darts.     All  valiant  uses 
(The  food  and  nourishment  of  noble  minds) 
In  us  two  here  shall  perish  :  we  shall  die 
(Which  is  the  curse  of  honor)  lastly 
Children  of  grief  and  ignorance. 


A.  D.  1584-1640.         PHILIP  MASSINOER.  1 29 

93»  Philip  Massinger.     15S4-1640.     (Manual,  p.  161.; 

From  the  Virgin  Martyr. 

Angelo,  an  Angel,  attends  Dorothea  as  a  Page. 

Angelo.     Dorothea.     The  ti'tne,  midnight. 

Dor.      Mj  book  and  taper. 

Ang.  Here,  most  holy  mistress. 

Dor.      Thy  voice  sends  forth  such  music,  that  I  never 

Was  ravished  with  a  more  celestial  sound. 

Were  every  servant  in  the  world  like  thee, 

So  full  of  goodness,  angels  would  come  down 

To  dwell  with  us  :  thy  naine  is  Angelo^ 

And  like  that  name  thou  art.     Get  thee  to  rest; 

Thy  youth  with  too  much  watching  is  oppressed. 
Ang.      No,  my  dear  lady.     I  could  weary  stars. 

And  force  the  wakeful  moon  to  lose  her  eyes, 

By  my  late  watching,  but  to  wait  on  you. 

When  at  your  prayers  you  kneel  before  the  altar, 

Methinks  I'm  singing  with  some  quire  in  heaven, 

So  blest  I  hold  me  in  your  company. 

Therefore,  my  most  loved  mistress,  do  not  bid 

Your  boy,  so  serviceable,  to  get  hence ; 

For  then  you  break  his  heart. 
Dor.  Be  nigh  me  still,  then. 

In  golden  letters  down  I'll  set  that  day. 

Which  gave  thee  to  me.     Little  did  I  hope 

To  meet  such  worlds  of  comfort  in  thyself, 

This  little,  pretty  body,  when  I  coming 

Forth  of  the  temple,  heard  my  beggar-boy. 

My  sweet-faced,  godly  beggar-boy,  crave  an  alms, 

Which  with  glad  hand  I  gave,  with  lucky  hand; 

And  when  I  took  thee  home,  my  most  chaste  bosom 

Methought  was  filled  with  no  hot  wanton  fire, 

But  with  a  holy  flame,  mounting  since  higher, 

On  wings  of  cherubims,  than  it  did  before. 
Atig.      Proud  am  I  that  my  lady's  modest  eye 

So  likes  so  poor  a  servant. 
Dor.  I  have  oifered 

Ilandfuls  of  gold  but  to  behold  thy  parents. 

I  would  leave  kingdoms,  were  I  queen  of  some. 

To  dwell  with  thy  good  father ; .  for,  the  son 

Bewitching  me  so  deeply  with  his  presence, 

He  that  begot  him  must  do't  ten  times  more. 

I  pray  thee,  my  SAveet  boy,  show  me  thy  parents : 

Be  not  ashamed. 
Ang.  I  am  not :  I  did  never 

9 


130  JOHN  FORD  Chap.  VIIL 

Know  who  my  mother  was  ;  but,  by  j'on  palace, 
Filled  with  bright  heavenly  courtiers,  I  dare  assure  you, 
And  pawn  these  eyes  upon  it,  and  this  hand. 
My  father  is  in  heaven;  and,  pretty  mistress. 
If  your  illustrious  hour-glass  spend  his  sand 
No  worse,  than  yet  it  doth,  upon  my  life, 
You  and  I  both  shall  meet  my  father  there. 
And  he  shall  bid  you  welcome. 
Dor.  A  blessed  day. 


f>4«  John  Ford.     1586-1639.     (Manual,  p.  162.) 

From  the  Lover's  Melancholy. 

Contention  of  a  Bird  and  a  Musician. 

Passing  from  Italy  to  Greece,  the  tales 

Which  poets  of  an  elder  time  have  feigned 

To  glorify  their  Tempe,  bred  in  me 

Desires  of  visiting  that  paradise. 

To  Thessaly  I  came,  and  living  private. 

Without  acquaintance  of  more  sweet  companions 

Than  the  old  inmates  to  my  love,  my  thoughts, 

1  day  by  day  frequented  silent  groves 

And  solitary  walks.     One  morning  early 

This  accident  encountered  me  :  I  heard 

The  sweetest  and  most  ravishing  contention 

That  art  or  nature  ever  were  at  strife  in. 

A  sound  of  music  touched  mine  ears,  or  rather 

Indeed  entranced  my  soul :  as  I  stole  nearer. 

Invited  by  the  melody,  I  saw 

This  youth,  this  fair-faced  youth,  upon  his  lute 

With  strains  of  strange  variety  and  harmony 

Proclaiming  (as  it  seemed)  so  bold  a  challenge 

To  the  clear  quiristers  of  the  woods,  the  birds. 

That  as  they  flocked  about  him,  all  stood  silent, 

W^ondering  at  what  they  heard.     I  wondered  too. 

A  nightingale, 

Nature's  best  skilled  musician,  undertakes 

The  challenge;  and,  for  every  several  strain 

The  well-shaped  youth  could  touch,  she  sung  her  dov/u; 

He  could  not  run  division  with  more  art 

Upon  his  quaking  instrument,  than  she 

The  nightingale  did  with  her  various  notes 

Reply  to. 

Some  time  thus  spent,  the  young  man  grew  at  last 

Inio  a  pretty  anger ;  that  a  bird, 


A.  I>.  1G23.  JOHN   WEBSTER.  131 

Whom  art  had  never  taught  cliffs,  moods,  or  notes, 

Should  vie  w^ith  him  for  mastery,  v^^hose  study 

Had  busied  many  hours  to  perfect  practice : 

To  end  the  controversy,  in  a  rapture 

Upon  his  instrument  he  plays  so  swiftly, 

So  many  voluntaries,  and  so  quick, 

That  there  was  curiosity  and  cunning. 

Concord  in  discord,  lines  of  differing  method 

Meeting  in  one  full  centre  of  delight. 

The  bird  (ordained  to  be 

Music^ s  first  martyr)  strove  to  imitate 

These  several  sounds  :  which  when  her  warbling  throat 

Failed  in,  for  grief  down  dropped  she  on  his  lute 

And  brake  her  heart.     It  was  the  quaintest  sadness, 

To  see  the  conqueror  upon  her  hearse 

To  weep  a  funeral  elegy  of  tears. 

He  looks  upon  the  trophies  of  his  art, 

Then  sighed,  then  wiped  his  eyes,  then  sighed,  and  cried, 

'•Alas!  poor  creature,  I  will  soon  revenge 

This  cruelty  upon  the  author  of  it: 

Henceforth  this  lute,  guilty  of  innocent  blood, 

Shall  never  more  betray  a  harmless  peace 

To  an  untimely  end  :  "  and  in  that  sorrow, 

As  he  was  pashing  it  against  a  tree, 

I  suddenly  stepped  in. 


i)o,  John  Webster.     F1.  1623.     (Manual,  p.  163.) 
From  the  Duchess  of  Malfy. 

The  Duchess's  marriage  with  Antonio  being  discovered,  her  brother  Ferdinand  KJiuta 
her  up  in  a  prison,  and  torments  her  with  various  trials  of  studied  oniclty.  I5y 
his  command,  Bosola,  the  instrument  of  his  devices,  shows  her  the  bodies  of  her 
husband  and  children  counterfeited  in  wax,  as  dead. 

Bo$.      He  doth  present  you  this  sad  spectacle. 

That  now  you  know  directly  they  are  dead, 
Hereafter  you  may  wisely  cease  to  grieve 
For  that  which  cannot  be  recovered. 

Duck.  There  is  not  between  heaven  and  earth  one  wish 
I  stay  for  after  this  :  it  wastes  me  more 
Than  were  't  my  picture  fashioned  out  of  wax. 
Stuck  with  a  magical  needle,  and  then  buried 
In  some  foul  dunghill ;  and  'yond's  an  excellent  property 
For  a  tyrant,  which  I  would  account  mercy. 

Bos.      What's  that.? 

Duck.  If  they  would  bind  me  to  that  lifeless  trunk. 
And  let  me  freeze  to  death. 


132  JAMES   SHIRLEY.  Chap.  VUI. 

Bos.      Come,  you  must  live. 

Leave  this  vain  sorrow. 

Things  being  at  the  worst  begin  to  mend. 

The  bee, 

When  he  hath  shot  his  sting  into  jour  hand, 

May  then  play  with  jour  ejelid. 
Duch.  Good  comfortable  fellow, 

Persuade  a  wretch  that's  broke  upon  the  wheel 

To  have  all  his  bones  new  set ;  entreat  him  live 

To  be  executed  again.     "Who  must  despatch  me? 

I  account  this  world  a  tedious  theatre. 

For  I  do  plaj  a  part  in't  'gainst  mj  will. 
Bo!:.     Corhe,  be  of  comfort;  I  will  save  jour  life. 
Duch.  Indeed  I  have  not  leisure  to  attend 

So  small  a  business. 

I  will  go  praj.  —  No  :  I'll  go  curse. 
Bos.  Ofie! 

Duch.  I  could  curse  the  stars  ! 
Bos.      O  fearful. 
Duch.  And  those  three  smiling  seasons  of  the  year 

Into  a  Russian  winter:  naj,  the  world 

To  its  first  chaos. 

Plagues  (that  make  lanes  through  largest  families) 

Consume  them !  ^ 

Let  them  like  tjrants 

Ne'er  be  remembered  but  for  the  ill  thej've  done ! 

Let  all  the  zealous  prajers  of  mortified 

Churchmen  forget  them ! 

Let  heaven  a  little  while  cease  crowning  martjrs, 

To  punish  them !    go,   howl  them  this ;    and   saj,  I  long  to 
bleed : 

It  is  some  mercj  when  men  kill  with  speed. 

1  Her  brothers. 


00*   James  Shirley.     1594-1666.     (Manual,  p.  164.) 
From  the  Lady  of  Pleasure. 

Sir  Thomas  Bornewell  expostulates  with  his  Lady  on  her  extravagance  and  love  of 

pleasure.  • 

Bornewell.     Aretina,  his  lady. 

Are.  I  am  angrj  with  mjself; 

To  be  so  miserablj  restrained  in  things. 
Wherein  it  doth  concern  jour  love  and  honor 
To  see  me  satisfied. 


A..  I).  1594-1666.  JAMES   SHIRLEY.  133 

Bor.  In  what,  Aretina, 

Dost  thou  accuse  me?  have  I  not  obeyed 

All  thy  desires,  against  mine  own  opinion; 

Quitted  the  country,  and  removed  the  hope 

Of  our  return,  by  sale  of  that  fair  lordship 

We  lived  in  :  changed  a  calm  and  retired  life 

For  this  wild  town,  composed  of  noise  and  charge? 
Arc.  What  charge,  more  than  is  necessary 

For  a  lady  of  my  birth  and  education  ? 
Bur.  I  am  not  ignorant  how  much  nobility 

Flows  in  your  blood,  your  kinsmen  great  and  powerful 

In  the  state;  but  with  this  lose  not  your  memory 

Of  being  my  wife ;  I  shall  be  studious, 

Madam,  to  give  the  dignity  of  your  birth 

All  the  best  ornaments  which  become  my  fortune; 

But  would  not  flatter  it,  to  ruin  both. 

And  be  the  fable  of  the  town,  to  teach 

Other  men  wit  by  loss  of  mine,  employed 

To  serve  your  vast  expenses. 
Are.  Am  I  then 

Brought  in  the  balance?  so,  sir. 
Bor.  Though  you  weigh 

Me  in  a  partial  scale,  my  heart  is  honest; 

And  must  take  liberty  to  think,  you  have 
Obeyed  no  modest  counsel  to  effect. 
Nay,  study  ways  of  pride  and  costly  ceremony; 
Your  change  of  gaudy  furniture,  and  pictures, 
Of  this  Italian  master,  and  that  Dutchman's; 
Your  mighty  looking-glasses,  like  artillery 
Brought  home  on  engines;  the  superfluous  plate 
Antic  and  novel;  vanities  of  tires. 
Fourscore  pound  suppers  for  my  lord  your  kinsman, 
Banquets  for  the  other  lady,  aunt,  and  cousins; 
And  perfumes  that  exceed  all;  train  of  servants, 
To  stifle  us  at  home,  and  show  abroad 
More  motley  than  the  French,  or  the  Venetian, 
About  your  coach,  whose  rude  postilion 
Must  pester  every  narrow  lane,  till  passengers 
And  tradesmen  curse  your  choking  up  their  stalls, 
And  common  cries  pursue  your  ladyship 
For  hinderins:  of  their  market. 
Are.  Have  you  done,  sir. 

Bor.  I  could  accuse  the  gaiety  of  your  wardrobe. 
And  prodigal  embroideries,  under  which, 
Rich  satins,  plushes,  cloth  of  silver,  dare 
Not  show  their  own  complexions  ;  your  jewels. 
Able  to  burn  out  the  spectators'  eyes. 


134  JAMES   SHIRLEY.  Chap.  VIIL 

And  show  like  bonfires  on  you  by  the  tapers  : 

Something  might  here  be  spared,  with  safety  of 

Your  birth  and  honor,  since  the  truest  wealth 

Shines  from  the  soul,  and  draws  up  just  admirers. 

I  could  urge  something  more. 
Ate.  Pray,  do.     I  like 

Your  homily  of  thrift. 
Boy.  I  could  wish,  madam, 

You  would  not  game  so  much. 
Aye.  A  gamester,  too !  ' 

Bor.  But  are  not  come  to  that  repentance  yet, 

Should  teach  you  skill  enough  to  raise  your  profit: 

You  look  not  through  the  subtilty  of  cards. 

And  mysteries  of  dice,  nor  can  you  save 

Charge  with  the  box,  buy  petticoats  and  pearls» 

And  keep  your  family  by  the  precious  income; 

Nor  do  I  wish  you  should  :  my  poorest  servant 

Shall  not  upbraid  my  tables,  nor  his  hire 

Purchased  beneath  my  honor :  you  make  play 

Not  a  pastime,  but  a  tyranny,  and  vex 

Yourself  and  my  estate  by  it. 
Are.  Good,  proceed. 

Bor.  Another  game  you  have,  which  consumes  more 

Your  fame  than  purse,  your  revels  in  the  night, 

Your  meetings,  called  the  ball,  to  which  appear 

As  to  the  court  of  pleasure,  all  your  gallants 

And  ladies,  thither  bound  by  a  subpoena 

Of  Venus  and  small  Cupid's  high  displeasure: 

'Tis  but  the  family  of  Love,  translated 

Into  more  costly  sin ;  there  was  a  play  on  it; 

And  had  the  poet  not  been  bribed  to  a  modest 

Expression  of  your  antic  gambols  in  it. 

Some  darks  had  been  discovered;  and  the  deeds  too; 

In  time  he  may  repent,  and  make  some  blush, 

To  see  the  second  part  danced  on  the  stage. 

My  thoughts  acquit  you  for  dishonoring  me 

By  any  foul  act ;  but  the  virtuous  know, 

'Tis  not  enough  to  clear  ourselves,  but  the 

Suspicions  of  our  shame. 
Are.  Have  you  concluded 

Your  lecture  } 
Bor.  I  have  done,  and  howsoever 

My  language  may  appear  to  you,  it  carries 

No  other  than  my  fair  and  just  intent 

To  your  delights,  without  curb  to  their  modest 

And  noble  freedom. 
Are.  I'll  not  be  so  tedious 

In  my  reply,  but,  without  art  or  elegance, 


A.]).  1594-1666.  JAMES   SHIRLEY.  135 

Assure  you  I  keep  still  my  first  opinion; 

And  though  you  veil  j'our  avaricious  meaning 

With  handsome  names  of  modesty  and  thrift, 

I  find  you  would  intrench  and  wound  the  liberty 

I  was  born  with.     Were  my  desires  unprivileged 

By  example  ;  while  my  judgment  thought  them  fit, 

You  ought  not  to  oppose;  but  when  the  practice 

And  tract  of  every  honorable  lady 

Authorize  me,  I  take  it  great  injustice 

To  liave  my  pleasures  circumscribed  and  taught  mc. 


136       QEORQE  WITHER.  — FRANCIS  QUARLES.     Ciiap.  IX. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

THE    SO-CALLED    METAPHYSICAL    POETS. 


07*    George  Wither.     1588-1667.     (Manual,  p.  167.) 

The  Steadfast  Shepherd. 

Hence  away,  thou  Siren,  leave  me, 

Pish!  unclasp  these  wanton  arms; 
Sugared  wounds  can  ne'er  deceive  me, 
(Though  thou  prove  a  thousand  charms). 

Fie,  fie,  forbear; 

No  common  snare 
Can  ever  my  affection  chain  : 

Thy  painted  baits, 

And  poor  deceits, 
Are  all  bestowed  on  me  in  vain. 

n^  *  *  *  *  if 

Leave  me  then,  you  Sirens,  leave  me; 

Seek  no  more  to  work  my  harms : 
Crafty  wiles  cannot  deceive  me, 

Who  am  proof  against  your  charms  : 

You  labor  may 

To  lead  astray 
The  heart,  that  constant  shall  remain; 

And  I  the  while 

Will  sit  and  smile 
To  see  you  spend  your  time  in  vain. 


.9^.  Francis  Quarles.     1592-1644.     (Manual,  p.  167.) 
O  THAT  Thou  wouldst  hide  Me  in  the  Grave,  that  Thou 

WOULDST   keep   Me   IN   SECRET    UNTIL    ThY  WRATH    BE    PAST. 

Ah  !  whither  shall  I  fly  ?  what  path  untrod 
Shall  I  seek  out  to  escape  the  flaming  rod 
Of  my  offended,  of  my  angry  God  ? 

Where  shall  I  sojourn?  what  kind  sea  will  hide 
My  head  from  thunder?  where  shall  I  abide, 
Until  his  flames  be  quenched  or  laid  aside? 


A.  D.  1593-1632.  GEORGE   HERBERT,  137 

What  if  my  feet  should  take  their  hasty  flight. 
And  seek  protection  in  the  shades  of  night? 
Alas  !  no  shades  can  blind  the  God  of  light. 

What  if  my  soul  should  take  the  wings  of  day, 
And  find  some  desert.?  if  she  springs  away, 
The  wings  of  Vengeance  clip  as  fast  as  they. 

What  if  some  solid  rock  should  entertain 
My  frighted  soul.'*  can  solid  rocks  restrain 
The  stroke  of  Justice  and  not  cleave  in  twain.' 

Nor  sea,  nor  shade,  nor  shield,  nor  rock,  nor  cave^ 

Nor  silent  deserts,  nor  the  sullen  grave, 

What  flame-eyed  Fury  means  to  smite,  can  save. 

'Tis  vain  to  flee ;  till  gentle  Mercy  show 

Her  better  eye,  the  farther  off  we  go. 

The  swing  of  Justice  deals  the  mightier  blow. 

Th'  ingenuous  child,  corrected,  doth  not  fly 
His  angry  mother's  hand,  but  clings  more  nigh, 
.\nd  quenches  with  his  tears  her  flaming  eye. 

Great  God  !  there  is  no  safety  here  below; 

Thou  art  my  fortress,  thou  that  seem'st  my  foe ; 

'Tis  thou,  that  strik'st  the  stroke,  must  guai'd  tht  .Vow. 


90,   George  Herbert.     1593-1633.     (Manual,  j     t^.; 

Sunday. 

O  day  most  calm,  most  bright! 
The  fruit  of  this,  the  next  world's  bud; 
Th'  indorsement  of  supreme  delight, 
Writ  by  a  friend,  and  with  his  blood ; 
The  couch  of  time ;  care's  balm  and  bay ; 
The  week  were  dark,  but  for  thy  light; — • 

Thy  torch  doth  show  the  way. 

The  other  days  and  thou 
Make  up  one  man ;  whose  face  thou  art. 
Knocking  at  heaven  with  thy  brow : 
The  worky  days  are  the  back-part; 
The  burden  of  the  week  lies  there. 
Making  the  whole  to  stoop  and  bow, 

Till  thy  release  appear. 


138  RICHARD   CRASHAW.  Chap.  IX. 

Man  had  straight  forward  gone 
To  endless  death.     But  thou  dost  pull 
*  And  turn  us  round,  to  look  on  one, 

Whom,  if  we  were  not  very  dull, 
We  could  not  choose  but  look  on  still ; 
Since  there  is  no  place  so  alone. 
The  which  he  doth  not  fill. 

« 

Sundays  the  pillars  are 
On  which  heaven's  palace  arched  lies  : 
The  other  days  fill  up  the  spare 
And  hollow  room  with  vanities. 
They  are  the  fruitful  bed  and  borders 
In  God's  rich  garden ;  that  is  bare, 

Which  parts  their  ranks  and  orders. 

The  Sundays  of  man's  life. 
Threaded  together  on  time's  string, 
Make  bracelets  to  adorn  the  wife 
Of  the  eternal,  glorious  King. 
On  Sunday,  heaven's  gate  stands  ope; 
Blessings  are  plentiful  and  rife; 

More  plentiful  than  hope. 

******* 

Thou  art  a  day  of  mirth  : 
And,  where  the  week-days  trail  on  ground. 
Thy  flight  is  higher,  as  thy  birth. 
O,  let  me  take  thee  at  the  bound. 
Leaping  with  thee  from  seven  to  seven; 
Till  that  we  both,  being  tossed  from  earth. 

Fly  hand  in  hand  to  heaven  ! 


.    Richard  Crashaw.     i 620-1 650.     (Manual,  p.   168.) 
Lines  on  a  Prayer-Book  sent  to  Mrs.  R. 

Lo!  here  a  little  volume,  but  large  book, 

(Fear  it  not,  sweet. 

It  is  no  hypocrite,) 
Much  larger  in  itself  than  in  its  look. 
It  is,  in  one  rich  handful,  heaven  and  all  — 
Heaven's  royal  hosts  encamped  thvis  small; 
To  prove  that  true,  schools  used  to  tell, 
A  thousand  angels  in  one  point  can  dwell. 

It  is  love's  great  artillery. 

Which  here  contracts  itself,  and  comes  to  lie 

Close  couched  in  your  white  bosom,  and  from  thence, 


A.  D.  1591-1674.  ROBERT  HERRIGK,  139 

As  from  a  snowy  fortress  of  defence, 
Against  the  ghostly  foe  to  take  your  part, 
And  fortify  the  hold  of  your  chaste  heart. 
It  is  the  armory  of  light : 
Let  constant  use  but  keep  it  bright, 

You'll  find  it  yields 
To  holy  hands  and  humble  hearts, 

More  swords  and  shields 
Than  sin  hath  snares  or  hell  hath  darts. 

Only  be  sure 

The  hands  be  pure 
That  hold  these  weapons,  and  the  eyes 

Those  of  turtles,  chaste  and  true. 
Wakeful  and  wise, 

Here  is  a  friend  shall  fight  for  you. 
Hold  but  this  book  before  your  heart, 
Let  prayer  alone  to  play  his  part. 
But  O  !  the  heart 
That  studies  this  high  art 
Must  be  a  sure  housekeeper 
And  yet  no  sleeper. 

Dear  soul,  be  strong, 

Mercy  will  come  ere  long, 
And  bring  her  bosom  full  of  blessings  — 

Flowers  of  never-fading  graces, 
To  make  immortal  dressings. 

For  worthy  souls  whose  wise  embraces 
Store  up  themselves  for  Him  who  is  alone 
The  spouse  of  virgins,  and  the  virgin's  son. 


101,   Robert  Herrick.     1591-1674.     (Manual,  p.  169.) 

Song. 

Gather  the  rose-buds  while  ye  may, 

Old  Time  is  still  a  flying; 
And  this  same  flower  that  smiles  to-day 

To-morrow  will  be  dying. 

The  glorious  lamp  of  heaven,  the  sun, 

The  higher  he's  a  getting. 
The  sooner  will  his  race  be  run, 

And  nearer  he's  to  setting. 

The  age  is  best  which  is  the  first, 
When  youth  and  blood  are  warmer; 

But  being  spent,  the  worse  and  worst 
Times  still  succeed  the  former. 


140  SIR  JOHN  SUCKLING.  Chap.  IX. 

Then  be  not  coy,  but  use  your  time, 

And,  whilst  ye  may,  go  marry ; 
For  having  lost  but  once  your  prime, 

You  may  forever  tarry. 

To  Meadows. 

Fair  daifodils,  we  weep  to  see 
You  haste  away  so  soon ; 
As  yet,  the  early-rising  sun 
Has  not  attained  its  moon. 

Stay,  stay 
Until  the  hasting  day 

Has  run 
But  to  the  even  song; 
And  having  prayed  together,  we 
Will  go  with  you  along. 

We  have  short  time  to  stay  as  you, 
We  have  as  short  a  spring; 
As  quick  a  growth  to  meet  decay, 
As  you  or  any  thing. 

We  die. 
As  your  hours  do,  and  dry 

Away, 
Like  to  the  summer's  rain. 
Or  as  the  pearls  of  morning's  dew, 
Ne'er  to  be  found  again. 


102,   Sjr  John  Suckling,     i 609-1 641.     (Manual,  p.  169.J 

Song. 

Out  upon  it,  I  have  loved 

Three  whole  days  together; 
And  am  like  to  love  three  more. 

If  it  prove  fair  weather. 

Time  shall  melt  away  his  wings, 

Ere  he  shall  discover 
In  the  whole  wide  world  again 

Such  a  constant  lover. 

But  the  spite  on't  is,  no  praise 

Is  due  at  all  to  me : 
Love  with  me  had  made  no  stays, 

Had  it  any  been  but  she. 


A.. D.  1618-1658.        SIR  RICHARD   LOVELACE.  HI 

Had  it  any  been  but  she, 

And  that  very  face, 
There  had  been  at  least  ere  this 

A  dozen  dozen  in  her  place. 


103*  Sir  Richard  Lovelace.     1618-1658.     (Manual, 

p.  169.) 


To  Althea  from  Prison. 


When  love  with  unconfined  wings 

Hovers  within  my  gates, 
And  my  divine  Althea  brings 

To  whisper  at  my  gates  ; 
When  I  lie  tangled  in  her  hair, 

And  fettered  with  her  eye. 
The  birds  that  wanton  in  the  air, 

Know  no  such  liberty. 

When  flowing  cups  run  swiftly  round 

With  no  allaying  Thames, 
Our  careless  heads  with  roses  crowned, 

Our  hearts  with  loyal  flames; 
When  thirsty  grief  in  wine  we  steep, 

When  healths  and  draughts  go  free, 
Fishes,  that  tipple  in  the  deep, 

Know  no  such  liberty. 

When,  linnet-like,  confined  I 

With  shriller  note  shall  sing 
The  mercy,  sweetness,  majesty. 

And  glories  of  my  king; 
When  I  shall  voice  aloud  how  good 

He  is,  how  great  should  be, 
Til'  enlarged  winds  that  curl  the  flood, 

Know  no  such  liberty. 

Stone  walls  do  not  a  prison  make, 

Nor  iron  bars  a  cage. 
Minds  innocent  and  quiet,  take 

That  for  an  hermitage  : 
If  I  have  freedom  in  my  love, 

And  in  my  soul  am  free, 
Angels  alone,  that  soar  above, 

Enjoy  such  liberty. 


142  THOMAS  CAREW.— WILLIAM  BROWNE,     Chap.  IX. 


104.    Thomas  Carew.     i 589-1 639.     (Manual,  pp.  170 

and  86.) 

Song. 

Ask  me  no  mo.e,  where  Jove  bestows, 
When  June  is  past,  the  fading  rose ; 
For  in  your  beauties  orient  deep 
These  flowers,  as  in  their  causes,  sleep. 

Ask  me  no  more,  whither  do  stray 
The  golden  atoms  of  the  day; 
For,  in  pure  love,  heaven  did  prepare 
Those  powders  to  enrich  your  hair. 

Ask  me  no  more,  whither  doth  haste 
The  nightingale,  when  May  is  past; 
For  in  your  sweet  dividing  throat 
She  winters,  and  keeps  warm  her  note. 

Ask  me  no  more,  where  those  stars  light, 
That  downwards  fall  in  dead  of  night; 
For  in  your  eyes  they  sit,  and  there 
Fixed  become,  as  in  their  sphere. 

Ask  me  no  more,  if  east  or  west. 
The  phoenix  builds  her  spicy  nest; 
For  unto  you  at  last  she  flies. 
And  in  your  fragrant  bosom  dies. 


103 •   W^iLLiAM  Browne.     1590-1645.     (Manual,  p.  171.) 

Evening. 

As  in  an  evening  when  the  gentle  air 

Breathes  to  the  sullen  night  a  soft  repair, 

I  oft  have  sat  on  Thames'  sweet  bank  to  hear 

My  friend  with  his  sweet  touch  to  charm  mine  ear. 

When  he  hath  played  (as  well  he  can)  some  stra;n 

That  likes  me,  straight  I  ask  the  same  again. 

And  he  as  gladly  granting,  strikes  it  o'er 

With  some  sweet  relish  was  forgot  before : 

I  would  have  been  content  if  he  would  play. 

In  that  one  strain  to  pass  the  night  away; 

But  fearing  much  to  do  his  patience  wrong, 

Unwillingly  have  asked  some  other  song: 


A.  D.  1605-1687.  EDMUJSI)   WALLER.  143 

So  in  this  differing  key  though  I  could  well 
A  many  hours  but  as  few  minutes  tell, 
Yet  lest  mine  own  delight  might  injure  you 
(Though  loath  so  soon)  I  take  my  song  anew. 


Z 06*.  William  Habington.     1605-1654.    (Manual,  p.  171.) 

CUPIO   DiSSOLVI. 

My  God !  if  'tis  thy  great  decree 
That  this  must  the  last  moment  be 

Wherein  I  breathe  this  air; 
My  heart  obeys,  joyed  to  retreat 
From  the  false  favors  of  the  great, 

And  treachery  of  the  fair. 

When  thou  shalt  please  this  soul  t*  enthrone 
Above  impure  corruption ; 

What  should  I  grieve  or  fear, 
To  think  this  breathless  body  must 
Become  a  loathsome  heap  of  dust, 

And  ne'er  again  appear. 

For  in  the  fire  when  ore  is  tried, 
And  by  that  torment  purified, 

Do  we  deplore  the  loss? 
And  when  thou  shalt  my  soul  refine, 
That  it  thereby  may  purer  shine, 

Shall  I  grieve  for  the  dross? 


107 •  Edmund  Waller,     i 605-1687.     (Manual,  p.  171,) 

Song. 

Go,  lovely  rose ! 

Tell  her  that  wastes  her  time  and  me. 
That  now  she  knows 

When  I  resemble  her  to  thee, 

How  sweet  and  fair  she  seems  to  be. 

Tell  her  that's  young, 

And  shuns  to  have  her  graces  spied, 
That  hadst  thou  sprung 

In  deserts,  where  no  men  abide, 

Thou  must  have  uncommended  died. 


144  SIR  WILLIAM  DAVENANT,  ChaPcIX 

Small  is  the  worth 

Of  beauty  from  the  light  retired : 
Bid  her  come  forth, 

Suffer  herself  to  be  desired, 

And  not  blush  so  to  be  admired. 

Then  die  !  that  she 

The  common  fate  of  all  things  rare 
May  read  in  thee, 

How  small  a  part  of  time  they  share 

That  are  so  wondrous  sweet  and  fair. 

On  a  Girdle. 

That  which  her  slender  waist  confined 
Shall  now  my  joyful  temples  bind : 
No  monarch  but  would  give  his  crown, 
His  arms  might  do  what  this  has  done. 

It  was  my  heaven's  extremest  sphere, 
The  pale  which  held  that  lovely  deer. 
My  joy,  my  grief,  my  hope,  my  love, 
Did  all  within  this  circle  move! 

A  narrow  compass  !  and  yet  there 
Dwelt  all  that's  good,  and  all  that's  fair; 
Give  me  but  what  this  ribbon  bound. 
Take  all  the  rest  the  sun  goes  round. 


108,  Sir  William  Davenant.     i 605-1 668.     (Manual 

p.  173.) 

From  "  Gondibert." 
Character  of  Birtha. 

1  o  Astragon,  heaven  for  succession  gave 
One  only  pledge,  and  Birtha  was  her  name; 

Whose  mother  slept,  where  flowers  grew  on  her  grave, 
And  she  succeeded  her  in  face  and  fame. 

She  ne'er  saw  courts,  yet  courts  could  have  undone 
With  untaught  looks  and  an  unpractised  heart; 

Her  nets,  the  most  prepared  could  never  shun; 
For  nature  spread  them  in  the  scorn  of  art. 

She  never  had  in  busy  cities  been, 

Ne'er  warmed  with  hopes,  nor  e'er  allayed  with  fears; 
Not  seeing  punishment,  could  guess  no  sin  ; 

And  sin  not  seeing,  ne'er  had  use  of  tears. 


A.  D.  1615-1668.  SIE  JOHN  DENHAM,  145 

But  hej-e  her  father's  precepts  gave  her  skill. 
Which  with  incessant  business  filled  the  hours; 

In  Spring,  she  gathered  blossoms  for  the  still ; 
In  Autumn,  berries ;  and  in  Summer,  flowers. 

And  as  kind  nature  with  calm  diligence 

Her  own  free  virtue  silently  employs, 
Whilst  she,  unheard,  does  ripening  growth  dispense. 

So  were  her  virtues  busy  without  noise. 

Whilst  her  great  mistress,  Nature,  thus  she  tends. 

The  busy  household  waits  no  less  on  her; 
By  secret  law,  each  to  her  beauty  bends ; 

Though  all  her  lowly  mind  to  that  prefer. 


109m  Sir  John  Denham.     1615-1668.     (Manual,  p.  173*) 

From  "Cooper's  Hill." 

The  Thames. 

My  eye,  descending  from  the  Hill,  surveys 

Where  Thames  among  the  wanton  valleys  strays. 

Thames  \  the  most  loved  of  all  the  Ocean's  sons, 

B3'  his  old  sire,  to  his  embraces  runs, 

Hasting  to  pay  his  tribute  to  the  sea, 

Like  mortal  life  to  meet  eternity; 

Though  with  those  streams  he  no  resemblance  hold, 

Whose  foam  is  amber,  and  their  gravel  gold  : 

His  genuine  and  less  guilty  wealth  t'  explore, 

Search  not  his  bottom,  but  survey  his  shore, 

O'er  which  he  kindly  spreads  his  spacious  wing 

And  hatches  plenty  for  th'  ensuing  spring; 

Nor  then  destroys  it  with  too  fond  a  stay, 

L#ike  mothers  which  their  infants  overlay; 

Nor  with  a  sudden  and  impetuous  wave. 

Like  profuse  kings,  resumes  the  wealth  he  gave. 

No  unexpected  inundations  spoil 

The  mower's  hopes,  nor  mock  the  ploughman's  toil; 

But  godlike  his  unwearied  bounty  flows; 

First  loves  to  do,  then  loves  the  good  he  does. 

Nor  are  his  blessings  to  his  banks  confined, 

But  free  and  common  as  the  sea  or  wind ; 

When  he,  to  boast  or  to  disperse  his  stoi'es, 

Full  of  the  tributes  of  his  grateful  shores, 

Visits  the  world,  and  in  his  flying  tours 

Brings  home  to  us,  and  makes  both  Indies  ours; 

Finds  wealth  where  'tis,  bestows  it  where  it  wantSj. 

CO 


146  ABRAHAM  COWLEY,  Chap.  IX. 

Cities  in  deserts,  woods  in  cities,  plants. 

So  that  to  us  no  thing,  no  place,  is  strange, 

While  his  fair  bosom  is  the  world's  exchange, 
j  b,  could  I  flow  like  thee,  and  make  thy  stream    , 

My  great  example,  as  it  is  my  theme ! 
tf Though  deep  yet  clear,  though  gentle  yet  not  dull, 
(  Strong  without  rage,  without  o'erflowing  full. 


Abraham  Cowley.     1618-1667.     (Manual,  p.  174.) 

110*    Hymn  to  Light. 

Hail!  active  Nature's  watchful  life  and  health  I     , 

Her  joy,  her  ornament,  and  wealth  ! 

Hail  to  thy  husband,  Heat,  and  thee! 

Thou  the  world's  beauteous  bride,  the  lusty  bridegroom  hei 

Say,  from  what  golden  quivers  of  the  sky 

Do  all  thy  winged  arrows  fly.? 

Swiftness  and  Power  by  birth  are  thine ; 

From  thy  great  Sire  they  come,  thy  Sire,  the  Word  Divinco 

Thou  in  the  moon's  bright  chariot,  proud  and  gay, 

Dost  thy  bright  wood  of  stars  survey, 

And  all  the  year  dost  with  thee  bring 

Of  thousand  flowery  lights  thine  own  nocturnal  spring 

Thou,  Scythian-like,  dost  round  thy  lands  above 

The  Sun's  gilt  tent  forever  move. 

And  still,  as  thou  in  pomp  dost  go, 

The  shining  pageants  of  the  world  attend  thy  show. 


lllm   Character  OF  Cromwell. 

What  can  be  more  extraordinary  than  that  a  person  of  mean  birth, 
no  fortune,  no  eminent  qualities  of  body,  which  have  sometimes,  or 
of  mind,  which  have  often,  raised  men  to  the  highest  dignities,  should 
have  the  courage  to  attempt,  and  the  happiness  to  succeed  in,  so  im- 
probable a  design  as  the  destruction  of  one  of  the  most  ancient  and 
most  solidly-founded  monarchies  upon  the  earth?  That  he  should 
have  the  power  or  boldness  to  put  his  prince  and  master  to  an  open 
and  infamous  death;  to  banish  that  numerous  and  strongly-allied 
family;  to  do  all  this  under  the  name  and  wages  of  a  parliament;  to 
trample  upon  them  too  as  he  pleased,  and  spurn  them  out  of  doors 
when  he  grew  weary  of  them ;  to  raise  up  a  new  and  unheard-of  mon- 
ster out  of  their  ashes ;  to  stifle  that  in  the  very  infancy,  and  set  up 


A.  D.  1618-1667.  ABRAHAM  COWLEY.  147 

himself  above  all  things  that  ever  were  called  sovereign  in  England; 
to  oppress  all  his  enemies  bj  arms,  and  all  his  friends  afterwards  by 
artifice ;  to  serve  all  parties  patiently  for  a  while,  and  to  command 
them  victoriously  at  last;  to  overrun  each  corner  of  the  three  nations, 
and  overcome  with  equal  facility  both  the  riches  of  the  south  and  the 
poverty  of  the  north ;  to  be  feared  and  courted  by  all  foreign  princes, 
and  adopted  a  brother  to  the  gods  of  the  earth ;  to  call  together  par- 
liaments with  a  word  of  his  pen,  and  scatter  them  again  with  the 
breath  of  his  mouth ;  to  be  humbly  and  daily  petitioned  that  he  would 
please  to  be  hired,  at  the  rate  of  two  millions  a  year,  to  be  the  master 
of  those  who  had  hired  him  before  to  be  their  servant;  to  have  the 
estates  and  lives  of  three  kingdoms  as  much  at  his  disposal  as  was 
the  little  inheritance  of  his  father,  and  to  be  as  noble  and  liberal  in 
the  spending  of  them;  and  lastly  (for  there  is  no  end  of  all  the  par- 
ticulars of  his  glory),  to  bequeath  all  this  with  one  word  to  his  pos- 
terity ;  to  die  with  peace  at  home,  and  triumph  abroad ;  to  be  buried 
among  kings,  and  with  more  than  regal  solemnity;  and  to  leave  a 
name  behind  him,  not  to  be  extinguished,  but  with  the  whole  world; 
which,  as  it  is  now  too  little  for  his  praises,  so  might  have  been  too 
for  his  conquests,  »f  the  short  line  of  his  human  life  could  have  been 
stretched  out  to  ihe.  extent  of  his  immortal  designs  ? 


148  JOHN  HALES,  Chap.  X, 


CHAPTER   X. 

THEOLOGICAL    WRITERS    OF    THE    CIVIL    WAR    AND    THE 

COMMONWEALTH. 


112 •  John  Hales.     1584-1656.     (Manual,  p.  177.) 

Peace  in  the  Church. 

He  that  shall  look  into  the  acts  of  Christians  as  thej  are  recorded 
by  more  indifferent  writers,  shall  easily  perceive  that  all  that  were 
Christians  were  not  saints.  But  this  is  the  testimony  of  an  enemy. 
Yea,  but  have  not  our  friends  taken  up  the  same  complaint.?  Doubt- 
less, if  it  had  been  the  voice  and  approbation  of  the  bridegroom,  that 
secular  state  and  authority  had  belonged  to  the  church,  either  of  due 
or  of  necessity,  the  friends  of  the  bridegroom  hearing  it  would  have 
rejoiced  at  it :  but  it  is  found  they  have  much  sorrowed  at  it.  St. 
Hilary,  much  offended  with  the  opinion,  that  even  orthodox  bishops 
of  his  time  had  taken  up  that  it  was  a  thing  very  necessary  for  the 
church  to  lay  hold  on  the  temporal  sword,  in  a  tract  of  his  against 
Auxentius,  the  Arian  bishop  of  Milan,  thus  plainly  bespeaks  them  :  — 
"  And  first  of  all,  I  must  needs  pity  the  labor  of  our  age,  and  be- 
wail the  fond  opinions  of  the  present  times,  by  which  men  suppose 
the  arm  of  flesh  can  much  advantage  God,  and  strive  to  defend  by 
secular  ambition  the  church  of  Christ.  I  beseech  you,  bishops,  you 
that  take  yourselves  so  to  be,  whose  authority  in  preaching  of  the 
Gospel  did  the  apostles  use?  By  the  help  of  what  powers  preached 
they  Christ,  and  turned  almost  all  nations  from  idols  to  God?  Took 
they  unto  themselves  any  honor  out  of  princes'  palaces,  who,  after 
their  stripes,  amidst  their  chains  in  prison,  sung  praises  unto  God? 
Did  St.  Paul,  when  he  was  made  a  spectacle  in  the  theatre,  summon 
together  the  churches  of  Christ  by  the  edicts  and  writs  of  kings? 
It  is  likely  he  had  the  safe  conduct  of  Nero,  or  Vespasian,  or  Decius, 
through  whose  hate  unto  us  the  confession  of  the  faith  grew  famous. 
Those  men  who  maintained  themselves  with  their  own  hands  and 
industry,  whose  solemn  meetings  were  in  parlors  and  secret  closets, 
who  travelled  through  villages  and  towns,  and  whole  countries  by  sea 
and  land,  in  spite  of  the  prohibition  of  kings  and  councils." 


A.  D.  1602-1644.        WILLIAM  CHILLINOWORTH.  149 

113,  William  Chillingworth.     1602-1644.     (Manual, 

p.  17S.) 

The  Religion  of  Protestants. 

When  I  say  the  religion  of  Protestants  is,  in  prudence,  to  be  pre- 
ferred before  yours,*  I  do  not  understand  the  doctrine  of  Luther,  or 
Calvin,  or  Melancthon ;  nor  the  Confession  of  Augusta^  or  Geneva; 
nor  the  Catechism  of  Heidelberg;  nor  the  Articles  of  the  Church  of 
England;  no,   nor  the  harmony  of  Protestant  confessions;  but  that 
wherein  they  all  agree,  and  which  they  all  subscribe  with  a  greater 
harmony,  as  the  perfect  rule  of  their  faith  and  actions,  —  that  is,  the 
Bible.     The  Bible  —  I  say  the  Bible  only  —  is  the  religion  of  Prot- 
estants!     Whatsoever  else   they  believe    besides   it,    and   the   plain, 
irrefragable,  indubitable  consequences  of  it,  well  may  they  hold   it  as 
a  matter  of  opinion  :  but,  as  matter  of  faith  and  religion,  neither  can 
thej^  with  coherence  to  their  own  grounds,  believe  it  themselves,  nor 
require  the  belief  of  it  of  others,  without  inost  high  and  most  schis- 
matical  presumption.     I,  for  my  part,   after  a  long  and  (as  I  verily 
believe  and  hope)  impartial  search  of  "the  true  way  to  eternal  happi- 
ness," do  profess  plainly  that  I  cannot  find  any  rest  to  the  sole  of  my 
foot  but  upon  this  Rock  only.     I  see  plainly,  and  with  my  own  eyes, 
that  there  are  popes  against  popes;  councils  against  councils;  some 
fathers  against  others ;  the  same  fathers  against  themselves ;  a  con- 
sent of  fathers  of  one  age  against  a  consent  of  fathers  of  another  age; 
the  Church  of  one  age  against  the  Church  of  another  age.     Traditive 
interpretations  of  Scripture  are  pretended,  but  there  are  few  or  none 
to  be  found.     No  tradition,  but  only  of  Scripture,  can  derive  itself 
from  the  Fountain,  but  may  be  plainly  proved  either  to  have  been 
brought  in,  in  such  an  age  after  Christ,  or  that  in  such  an  age  it  was 
not  in.     In  a  word,  there  is  no  sufficient  certainty,  but  of  Scripture 
only,   for  any  considering  man  to  build  upon.     This,   therefore,   and 
this  only,  I  have  reason  to  believe:  this  I  will  profess;  according  to 
this  I  will   live;  and  for  this,   if  there  be    occasion,   I  will  not  only 
willingly,  but  even  gladly,  lose  my  life,  though  I  should  be  sorry  that 
Christians  should  take  it  from  me.     Propose  me  anything  out  of  this 
Book,  and  require  whether  I  believe  it  or  no,  and  seem  it  never  so 
incomprehensible  to  human  reason,  I  will  subscribe  it  with  hand  and 
heart,   as  knowing  no  demonstration   can   be  stronger  than  this:  — 
God  hath  said  so;  therefore  it  is  true.     In  other  things  I  will  take  no 
man's  liberty  of  judgment  from  him,  neither  shall  any  man  take  mine 
from  me.     I  will  think  no  man  the  worse  man,  nor  the  worse  Chris- 
tian; I  will  love   no  man  the  less  for  differing  in  opinion  from  me. 
And  what  measure  I  mete  to  others,  I  expect  from  them  again.     I  am 
fully  assured  that  God  does  not,  and  therefore  that  man  ought  not,  to 
require  any  more  of  any  man  than  this,  to  believe  the  Scripture  to  be 

1  The  Homan  Catholic.  2  Augsburg. 


150  SIB   THOMAS  BBOWNE.  Chap.  X. 

God's  Word;  to  endeavor  to  find  the  true  sense  of  it;    and  to  live 
according  to  it. 

This  is  the  religion  which  I  have  chosen,  after  a  long  deliberation; 
and  I  am  verily  persuaded  that  I  have  chosen  wisely,  maich  more  wise- 
ly, than  if  I  had  guided  myself  according  to  your  Church's  authority. 


H4»  Sir  Thomas  Browne.    1605-16S2.    (Manual,  p.  178.) 

Thoughts  on  Death  and  Immortality. 
From  the  "  Hydnotaphia." 

In  a  field  of  Old  Walsingham,  not  many  months  past,  were  digged 
up  between  forty  and  fifty  urns,  deposited  in  a  dry  and  sandy  soil,  not 
a  yard  deep,  not  far  from  one  another :  not  all  strictly  of  one  figure, 
but  most  answering  these  described  ;  some  containing  two  pounds  of 
bones,  distinguishable  in  skulls,  ribs,  jaws,  thigh-bones,  and  teeth, 
with  fresh  impressions  of  their  combustion ;  besides,  the  extraneous 
substances,  like  pieces  of  small  boxes,  or  combs  handsomely  wrought, 
handles  of  small  brass  instruments,  brazen  nippers,  and  in  one  some 
kind  of  opal. 

That  these  were  the  urns  of  Romans,  from  the  common  custom  and 
place  where  they  were  found,  is  no  obscure  conjecture ;  not  far  from  a 
Roman  garrison,  and  but  five  miles  from  Brancaster,  set  down  by 
ancient  record  under  the  name  of  Brannodunum ;  and  where  the  ad- 
joining town,  containing  seven  parishes,  in  no  very  different  sound, 
but  Saxon  termination,  still  retains  the  name  of  Burnham ;  which 
being  an  early  station,  it  is  not  improbable  the  neighbor  parts  were 
filled  with  habitations,  either  of  Romans  themselves,  or  Britons  Ro- 
manized, which  observed  the  Roman  customs.     *         *         *         * 

What  song  the  sirens  sang,  or  what  name  Achilles  assumed  when  he 
hid  himself  among  women,  though  puzzling  questions,  are  not  beyond 
all  conjecture.  What  time  the  persons  of  these  ossuaries  entered  the 
famous  nations  of  the  dead,  and  slept  with  princes  and  counsellors, 
might  admit  a  wide  solution.  But  who  were  the  proprietaries  of  these 
bones,  or  what  bodies  these  ashes  made  up,  were  a  question  above 
antiquarianism;  not  to  be  resolved  by  man,  not  easily  perhaps  by 
spirits,  except  we  consult  the  provincial  guardians,  or  tutela.-y  obser- 
vators.  Had  they  made  as  good  provision  for  their  names,  as  they 
have  done  for  their  relics,  they  had  not  so  grossly  erred  in  the  art  of 
perpetuation.  But  to  subsist  in  bones,  and  be  but  pyramidally  extant, 
is  a  fallacy  in  duration,         *         ♦         *         ♦ 

But  the  iniquity  of  oblivion  blindly  scattereth  her  poppy,  and  deals 
with  the  memory  of  men  without  distinction  to  merit  of  perpetuity. 
Who  can  but  pity  the  founder  of  the  pyramids?  Herostratus  lives, 
that  burnt  the  temple  of  Diana!  /le  is  almost  lost  that  built  it.  Time 
hath  spared  the  epitaph  of  Adrian's  horse,  confounded  that  of  himself. 
In  vain  we  compute  our  felicities  by  the  advantage  of  our  good  names, 


A.  D.  1608-1661.  THOMAS   FULLER.  151 

since  bad  have  equal  durations ;  and  Thersites  is  like  to  live  as  long 
as  Agamemnon,  without  the  favor  of  the  everlasting  register.  Who 
knows  whether  the  best  of  men  be  known,  or  whether  there  be  not 
more  remarkable  persons  forgot,  than  any  that  stand  remembered  in 
the  known  account  of  time?  The  first  man  had  been  as  unknown  as 
the  last,  and  Methuselah's  long  life  had  been  his  only  chronicle. 

There  is  nothing  strictly  immortal  but  immortality.  Whatever  hath 
no  beginning,  may  be  confident  of  no  end.  All  others  have  a  depen- 
dent being,  and  within  the  reach  of  destruction,  which  is  the  peculiar 
of  that  necessary  essence  that  cannot  destroy  itself,  and  the  highest 
strain  of  omnipotency,  to  be  so  powerfully  constituted,  as  not  to  suffer 
even  from  the  power  of  itself.  But  the  sufficiency  of  Christian  immor- 
tality frustrates  all  earthly  glory,  and  the  quality  of  either  state  after 
death  makes  a  folly  of  posthumous  memory. 

Man  is  a  noble  animal,  splendid  in  ashes,  and  pompous  in  the 
grave;  solemnizing  nativities  and  deaths  with  equal  lustre. 


115,  Thomas  Fuller.     1608-1661.     (Manual,  p.  179.) 

The  Good  Schoolmaster. 
From  the  "  Holy  State." 

There  is  scarce  any  profession  in  the  commonwealth  more  neces- 
sary, which  is  so  slightly  performed.  The  reasons  whereof  I  conceive 
to  be  these:  —  First,  young  scholars  make  this  calling  their  refuge; 
yea,  perchance,  before  they  have  taken  any  degree  in  the  university, 
commence  schoolmasters  in  the  country,  as  if  nothing  else  were  re- 
quired to  set  up  this  profession  but  only  a  rod  and  a  ferula.  Second- 
ly, others  who  are  able,  use  it  only  as  a  passage  to  better  preferment, 
to  patch  the  rents  in  their  present  fortune,  till  they  can  provide  a  new 
one,  and  betake  themselves  to  some  more  gainful  calling.  Thirdly, 
they  are  disheartened  from  doing  their  best  with  the  miserable  reward 
which  in  some  places  they  receive,  being  masters  to  their  children  and 
slaves  to  their  parents.  Fourthly,  beipg  grown  rich  they  grow  negli- 
gent, and  scorn  to  touch  the  school  but  by  the  proxy  of  the  usher. 
But  see  how  well  our  schoolmaster  behaves  himself. 

His  genius  inclines  him  with  delight  to  his  profession.  God,  of  his 
goodness,  hath  fitted  several  men  for  several  callings,  that  the  neces- 
sity of  Church  and  State,  in  all  conditions,  may  be  provided  for. 
And  thus  God  mouldeth  some  for  a  schoolmaster's  life,  undertaking  it 
with  desire  and  delight,  and  discharging  it  with  dexterity  and  happy 
success. 

He  studieth  his  scholars'  natures  as  carefully  as  they  their  books; 
and  ranks  their  dispositions  into  several  forms.  And  though  it  may 
Beem  difficult  for  him  in  a  great  school  to  descend  to  all  particulars, 
yet  experienced  schoolmasters  may  quickly  make  a  grammar  of  boys' 
natures. 


152  JEREMY  TAYLOR.  Chap.  X. 

He  is  able,  diligent,  and  methodical  in  his  teaching;  not  leading 
Ihem  rather  in  a  circle  than  forwards.  He  minces  his  precepts  for  chil- 
dren to  swallow,  hanging  clogs  on  the  nimbleness  of  his  own  soul,  that 
his  scholars  maj  go  along  with  him. 

He  is  moderate  in  inflicting  deserved  correction.  Many  a  school- 
master better  answereth  the  name  paidotribe  *  than  paidagogos^^ 
rather  tearing  his  scholars'  flesh  with  whipping,  than  giving  them 
good  education.  No  wonder  if  his  scholars  hate  the  Muses,  being 
presented  unto  them  in  the  shapes  of  fiends  and  furies. 

Such  an  Orbilius  mars  more  scholars  than  he  makes.  Their  tyranny 
hath  caused  many  tongues  to  stammer  which  spake  plain  by  nature, 
and  whose  stuttering  at  first  was  nothing  else  but  fears  quavering  on 
their  speech  at  their  master's  presence,  and  whose  mauling  them  about 
their  heads  hath  dulled  those  who  in  quickness  exceeded  their  master. 

To  conclude,  let  this,  amongst  other  motives,  make  schoolmasters 
careful  in  their  place  —  that  the  eminences  of  their  scholars  have  com- 
mended the  memories  of  their  schoolmasters  to  posterity. 

1  Boy-bruiser.  2  Boy-teacher. 


IIG,  Jeremy  Taylor.     1613-1667.     (Manual,  p.  181.) 

Marriage. 

The  dominion  of  a  man  over  his  wife  is  no  other  than  as  the  soul 
rules  the  body;  for  which  it  takes  a  mighty  care,  and  uses  it  with  a 
delicate  tenderness,  and  cares  for  it  in  all  contingencies,  and  watches 
to  keep  it  from  all  evils,  and  studies  to  make  for  it  fair  provisions,  and 
very  often  is  led  by  its  inclinations  and  desires,  and  does  never  con- 
tradict its  appetites,  but  when  they  are  evil,  and  then  also  not  without 
some  trouble  and  sorrow;  and  its  government  comes  only  to  this,  it 
furnishes  the  body  with  light  and  understanding,  and  the  body  fur- 
nishes the  soul  with  hands  and  feet;  the  soul  governs,  because  the 
body  cannot  else  be  happy,  but  the  government  is  no  other  than  pro- 
vision ;  as  a  nurse  governs  a  child,  when  she  causes  him  to  eat,  and  to 
be  warm,  and  dry,  and  quiet.  And  yet  even  the  very  government  it« 
self  is  divided;  for  man  and  wife  in  the  family,  are  as  the  sun  and 
moon  in  the  firmament  of  heaven;  he  rules  by  day,  and  she  by  night, 
that  is,  in  the  lesser  and  more  proper  circles  of  her  aff"airs,  in  the  con- 
duct of  domestic  provisions  and  necessary  offices,  and  shines  only  by 
his  light,  and  rules  by  his  authority.  And  as  the  moon  in  opposition 
to  the  sun  shines  brightest;  that  is,  then,  when  she  is  in  her  own  cir- 
cles and  separate  regions ;  so  is  the  authority  of  the  wife  then  most 
conspicuous,  when  she  is  separate  and  in  her  proper  sphere;  "in 
gynsec'eo,"  in  the  nursery  and  ofiices  of  domestic  employment.  But 
when  she  is  in  conjunction  with  the  sun,  her  brother,  that  is,  in  that 
place  and  employment  in  which  his  care  and  proper  offices  are  em- 
ployed, her  light  is  not  seen,  her  authority  hath   no  proper  business. 


A.  D.  1613-1667.  JEREMY  TAYLOR.  153 

But  else  there  is  no  difference,  for  they  were  barbarous  people,  among 
whom  wives  were  instead  of  servants;  and  it  is  a  sign  of  weakness,  to 
force  the  camels  to  kneel  for  their  load  because  thou  hast  not  strength 
and  spirit  enough  to  climb;  to  make  the  affections  and 'evenness  of  a 
wife  bend  by  the  flexures  of  a  servant,  is  a  sign  the  man  is  not  wise 
enough  to  govern  when  another  is  by.  And  as  amongst  men  and 
wo/nen  humility  is  the  way  to  be  preferred,  so  it  is  in  husbands,  they 
shall  prevail  by  cession,  by  sweetness  and  counsel,  and  charity  and 
compliance.  So  that  we  cannot  discourse  of  the  man's  right,  without 
<lescribing  the  measures  of  his  duty. 


On  Prayer. 

Prayer  is  an  action  of  likeness  to  the  Holy  Ghost,  the  Spirit  of  gen- 
tleness and  dove-like  simplicity;  an  imitation  of  the  holy  Jesus,  whose 
spirit  is  meek,  up  to  the  greatness  of  the  biggest  example;  and  a  con- 
formity to  God,  whose  anger  is  always  just,  and  marches  slowly,  and 
is  without  transportation,  and  often  hindered,  and  never  hasty,  and  is 
full  of  mercy.  Prayer  is  the  peace  of  our  spirit,  the  stillness  of  our 
thoughts,  the  evenness  of  recollection,  the  seat  of  meditation,  the  rest 
of  our  cares,  and  the  calm  of  our  tempest;  prayer  is  the  issue  of  a 
quiet  mind,  of  untroubled  thoughts,  it  is  the  daughter  of  charity,  and 
the  sister  of  meekness ;  and  he  that  prays  to  God  with  an  angry,  that 
is,  with  a  troubled  and  discomposed  spirit,  is  like  him  that  retires 
into  a  battle  to  meditate,  and  sets  up  his  closet  in  the  out-quarters  of 
an  army,  and  chooses  a  frontier  garrison  to  be  wise  in.  Anger  is  a 
perfect  alienation  of  the  mind  from  prayer,  and  therefore  is  contrary 
to  that  attention,  which  presents  our  prayers  in  a  right  line  to  God. 
For  so  have  I  seen  a  lark  rising  from  his  bed  of  grass,  and  soaring  up- 
wards, singing  as  he  rises,  and  hopes  to  get  to  heaven,  and  climb 
above  the  clouds;  but  the  poor  bird  was  beaten  back  with  the  loud 
sighings  of  an  eastern  wind,  and  his  motion  made  irregular  and  in- 
constant, descending  more  at  every  breath  of  the  tempest  than  it  could 
recover  by  the  libration  and  frequent  weighing  of  his  wings  ;  till  the 
little  creature  was  forced  to  sit  down  and  pant,  and'  stay  till  the  storm 
was  over;  and  then  it  made  a  prosperous  flight,  and  did  rise  and  sing 
as  if  it  had  learned  inusic  and  motion  from  an  angel,  as  he  passed 
sometimes  through  the  air  about  his  ministries  here  below:  so  is  the 
prayer  of  a  good  man  :  when  his  affairs  have  required  business,  and 
his  business  was  matter  of  discipline,  and  his  discipline  was  to  pass 
upon  a  sinning  person,  or  had  a  design  of  charity,  his  duty  met  with 
the  infirmities  of  a  man,  and  anger  was  its  instrument,  and  the  instru- 
ment became  stronger  than  the  prime  agent,  and  raised  a  tempest, 
and  overruled  the  man;  and  then  his  prayer  was  broken,  and  his 
thoughts  were  troubled,  and  his  words  went  up  towards  a  cloud,  and 
his  thoughts  pulled  them  back  again,  and  made  them  without  inten- 
tion, and  the  good  man  sighs  for  his   infirmity,  but  must  be  content 


154  JEREMY  TAYLOR.  Chap.  X. 

to  lose  the  prayer,  and  he  must  recover  it  when  his  anger  is  removed, 
and  his  spirit  is  becalmed,  made  even  as  the  brow  of  Jesus,  and  smooth 
like  the  heart  of  God ;  and  then  it  ascends  to  heaven  upon  the  wings 
of  the  holy  dove,  and  dwells  with  God,  till  it  returns,  like  the  useful 
bee,  loaden  with  a  blessing  and  the  dew  of  heaven. 


On  Content. 

Since  all  the  evil  in  the  world  consists  in  the  disagreeing  between 
the  object  and  the  appetite,  as  when  a  man  hath  what  he  desires  not, 
or  desires  what  he  hath  not,  or  desires  amiss,  he  that  composes  his 
spirit  to  the  present  accident  hath  variety  of  instances  for  his  virtue, 
but  none  to  trouble  him,  because  his  desires  enlarge  not  beyond  his 
present  fortune :  and  a  wise  man  is  placed  in  the  variety  of  chances, 
like  the  nave  or  centre  of  a  wheel  in  the  midst  of  all  the  circumvolu- 
tions and  changes  of  postux-e,  without  violence  or  change,  save  that 
it  turns  gently  in  compliance  with  its  changed  parts,  and  is  indiffer- 
ent which  part  is  up,  and  which  is  down ;  for  there  is  some  virtue  or 
other  to  be  exercised  whatever  happens  —  either  patience  or  thanks- 
giving, love  or  fear,  moderation  or  humility,  charity  or  contented- 
ness. 

It  conduces  much  to  our  content,  if  we  pass  by  those  things  which 
happen  to  our  trouble,  and  consider  that  which  is  pleasing  and  pros- 
perous ;  that,  by  the  representation  of  the  better,  the  worse  may  be 
blotted  out. 

It  may  be  thou  art  entered  into  the  cloud  which  will  bring  a  gentle 
sliower  to  refresh  thy  sorrows. 

I  am  fallen  into  the  hands  of  publicans  and  sequestrators,  and  they 
have  taken  all  from  me:  what  now.'*  let  me  look  about  me.  They 
have  left  me  the  sun  and  moon,  fire  and  water,  a  loving  wife,  and 
many  friends  to  pity  me,  and  some  to  relieve  me,  and  I  can  still  dis- 
course ;  and,  unless  I  list,  they  have  not  taken  away  my  merry  coun- 
tenance, and  my  cheerful  spirit,  and  a  good  conscience;  they  still 
have  left  me  the  providence  of  God,  and  all  the  promises  of  the 
Gospel,  and  my  religion,  and  my  hopes  of  heaven,  and  my  charity 
to  them  too  :  and  still  I  sleep  and  digest,  I  eat  and  drink,  I  read  and 
meditate,  I  can  walk  in  my  neighbor's  pleasant  fields,  and  see  the 
varieties  of  natural  beauties,  and  delight  in  all  that  in  which  God 
delights,  that  is,  in  virtue  and  wisdom,  in  the  whole  creation,  and  in 
God  himself. 


Against  Anger. 

I.  Consider  that  anger  is  a  professed  enemy  to  counsel ;  it  is  a 
direct  storm,  in  which  no  man  can  be  heard  to  speak  or  call  from 
without :  for  if  you  counsel  gently,  you  are  despised ;  if  you  urge  it 
and  be  vehefnent,  you  j^rovoke  it  more.     Be  careful,  therefor®,  to  la^ 


A.  D.  1613-1667.  JEREMY  TAYLOR.  155 

up  beforehand  a  great  stock  of  reason  and  prudent  consideration, 
that,  like  a  besieged  town,  you  maj  be  provided  for,  and  be  defensible 
from  within,  since  you  are  not  likely  to  be  relieved  from  without. 
Anger  is  not  to  be  suppressed  but  by  something  which  is  as  inward 
as  itself,  and  more  habitual.  To  which  purpose  add  that,  2.  Of  all 
passions  it  endef.vors  most  to  make  reason  useless.  3.  That  it  is  a 
universal  passion,  of  an  infinite  object;  for  no  man  was  ever  so 
amorous  as  to  love  a  toad;  none  so  envious  as  to  repine  at  the  con- 
dition of  the  miserable;  no  man  so  timorous  as  to  fear  a  dead  bee; 
but  anger  is  troubled  at  every  thing,  and  every  man,  and  every  acci- 
dent :  and  therefore,  unless  it  be  suppressed,  it  will  make  a  man's 
condition  restless.  4.  If  it  proceeds  from  a  great  cause,  it  turns  to 
fury;  if  from  a  small  cause,  it  is  peevishness  :  and  so  is  always  either 
terrible  or  ridiculous.  5.  It  makes  a  man's  body  monstrous,  deformed, 
and  contemptible;  the  voice  horrid;  the  eyes  cruel;  the  face  pale  or 
fiery;  the  gait  fierce;  the  speech  clamorous  and  loud.  6.  It  is  neither 
manly  nor  ingenuous.  7.  It  proceeds  from  softness  of  spirit  and 
pusillanimity;  which  makes,  that  women  are  more  angry  than  men, 
sick  persons  more  than  the  healthful,  old  men  more  than  young,  un- 
prosperous  and  calamitous  people  than  the  blessed  and  fortunate. 
8.  It  is  a  passion  fitter  for  flies  and  insects,  than  for  persons  professing 
nobleness  and  bounty.  9.  It  is  troublesome,  not  only  to  those  that 
suffer  it,  but  to  them  that  behold  it;  there  being  no  greater  incivility 
of  entertainment,  than,  for  the  cook's  fault  or  the  negligence  of  the 
servants,  to  be  cruel,  or  outrageous,  or  unpleasant  in  the  presence  of 
guests,  10.  It  makes  marriage  to  be  a  necessary  and  unavoidable 
trouble;  friendships,  and  societies,  and  familiarities  to  be  intolerable. 
II.  It  multiplies  the  evils  of  drunkenness,  and  makes  the  levities  of 
wine  to  run  into  madness.  12.  It  makes  innocent  jesting  to  be  the 
beginning  of  tragedies.  13.  It  turns  friendship  into  hatred  ;  it  makes 
a  man  lose  himr.elf,  and  his  reason,  and  his  argument  in  disputa- 
tions. It  turns  the  desires  of  knowledge  into  an  itch  of  wrangling. 
It  adds  insolency  to  power.  It  turns  justice  into  cruelty,  and  judg- 
ment into  oppression.  It  changes  discipline  into  tediousness  and 
hatred  of  liberal  institutions.  It  makes  a  prosperous  man  to  be  en- 
vied, and  the  unfortunate  to  be  unpitied.  It  is  a  confluence  of  all  the 
irregular  passions :  there  is  in  it  envy  and  sorrow,  fear  and  scorn, 
pride  and  prejudice,  rashness  and  inconsideration,  rejoicing  in  evil, 
and  a  desire  to  inflict  it,  self-love,  impatience,  and  curiosity.  And, 
'.asth',  though  it  be  very  troublesome  to  others,  yet  it  is  most  trouble- 
some to  him  that  hath  it. 


Comforting  the  Afflicted. 

Certain  it  is,  that  as  nothing  can  better  do  it,  so  there  is  nothing 
greater,  for  which  God  made  our  tongues,  next  to  reciting  His  praises, 
than  to  minister  comfort  to  a  weary  soul.  And  what  greater  measure 
can  we  have,  than  that  we  should  bring  ]oy  to  our  brother,  who  with 


156  BICHARD  BAXTER.  Chap.  X. 

his  dreary  ejes  looks  to  heaven  and  round  about,  >and  cannot  find  so 
much  rest  as  to  lay  his  eyelids  close  together  —  than  that  thy  tongue 
should  be  tuned  with  heavenly  accents,  and  make  the  weary  soul  to 
listen  for  light  and  ease ;  and  when  he  perceives  that  there  is  such  a 
thing  in  the  world,  and  in  the  order  of  things,  as  comfort  and  joy,  to 
begin  to  break  out  from  the  prison  of  his  sorrows  at  the  door  of  sighs 
and  tears,  and  by  little  and  little  melt  into  showers  and  refreshment? 
This  is  glory  to  thy  voice,  and  employment  fit  for  the  brightest  angel. 
But  so  have  I  seen  the  sun  kiss  the  frozen  earth,  which  was  bound  up 
with  the  images  of  death,  and  the  colder  breath  of  the  north ;  and 
then  the  waters  break  from  their  enclosures,  and  melt  with  joy,  and 
run  in  useful  channels ;  and  the  flies  do  rise  again  from  their  little 
graves  in  the  walls,  and  dance  a  while  in  the  air,  to  tell  that  their  joy 
is  within,  and  that  the  great  mother  of  creatures  will  open  the  stock 
of  her  new  refreshment,  become  useful  to  mankind,  and  sing  praises 
to  her  Redeemer.  So  is  the  heart  of  a  sorrowful  man  under  the  dis- 
courses of  a  wise  comforter  ;•  he  breaks  from  the  despairs  of  the  grave, 
and  the  fetters  and  chains  of  sorrow;  he  blesses  God,  and  he  blesses 
thee,  and  he  feels  his  life  returning;  for  to  be  miserable  is  death, 
but  nothing  is  life  but  to  be  comforted ;  and  God  is  pleased  with 
no  music  from  below  so  much  as  in  the  thanksgiving  songs  of  relieved 
widows,  of  supported  orphans,  of  rejoicing,  and  comforted,  and 
thankful  persons. 


117»  Richard  Baxter.     1615-1691.     (Manual,  p.  1S4.) 

From  the  "  Saints'  Rest." 

Rest !  how  sweet  the  sound !  It  is  melody  to  my  ears  !  It  lies  as  a 
reviving  cordial  at  my  heart,  and  from  thence  sends  forth  lively  spirits 
which  beat  through  all  the  pulses  of  my  soul !  Rest,  not  as  the  stone 
that  rests  on  the  earth,  nor  as  this  flesh  shall  rest  in  the  grave,  nor  such 
a  rest  as  the  carnal  world  desires.  O  blessed  rest!  when  we  rest  not 
day  and  night,  saying,  "Holy,  holy,  holy.  Lord  God  Almighty:" 
when  we  shall  rest  from  sin,  but  not  from  worship ;  from  suffering 
and  sorrow,  but  not  from  joy !  O  blessed  day !  when  I  shall  rest 
with  God !  when  I  shall  rest  in  the  bosom  of  my  Lord !  when  my 
perfect  soul  and  body  shall  together  perfectly  enjoy  the  most  perfect 
God !  when  God,  who  is  love  itself,  shall  perfectly  love  me,  and 
rest  in  this  love  to  me,  as  I  shall  rest  in  my  love  to  Him ;  and 
rejoice  over  me  with  joy,  and  joy  over  me  with  singing,  as  I  shall 
rejoice  in  Him ! 

This  is  that  joy  which  was  procured  by  sorrow,  that  crown  which 
was  procured  by  the  Cross.  My  Lord  wept  that  now  my  tears  might 
be  wiped  away;  He  bled  that  I  might  now  rejoice;  He  was  forsaken 
that  I  might  not  now  be  forsook;  He  then  died  that  I  might  now  live. 
O  free  mercy,  that  can  exalt  so  vile  a  wretch !  Free  to  me,  though 
dear  to  Christ :  free  grace  that  hath  chosen  me,  when  thousands  wert. 


A.  1).  1615-1691.  BlCEAliD  BAXTER.  157 

forsaken.  This  is  not  like  our  cottages  of  claj,  our  prisons,  our 
earthly  dwellings.  This  voice  of  joy  is  not  like  our  old  complaints, 
our  impatient  groans  and  sighs;  nor  this  melodious  praise  like  the 
scoffs  and  revilings,  or  the  oaths  and  curses,  which  we  heard  on  earth. 
This  body  is  not  like  that  we  had,  nor  this  soul  like  the  soul  we  had, 
nor  this  life  like  the  life  we  lived.  We  have  changed  our  place  and 
state,  our  clothes  and  thoughts,  our  looks,  language,  and  company. 
Before,  a  saint  was  weak  and  despised ;  but  now,  how  happy  and  glo- 
rious a  thing  is  a  saint!  Where  is  now  their  body  of  sin,  which 
wearied  themselves  and  those  about  them?  Where  are  now  our  dif- 
ferent judgments,  reproachful  names,  divided  spirits,  exasperated 
passions,  strange  looks,  uncharitable  censures.?  Now  are  all  of  one 
judgment,  of  one  name,  of  one  heart,  house,  and  glory.  O  sweet 
reconciliation  !  happy  union  !  Now  the  Gospel  shall  no  more  be  dis- 
honored through  our  folly.  No  more,  my  soul,  shalt  thou  lament  the 
sufferings  of  the  saints,  or  the  church's  ruins,  or  mourn  thy  suffering 
friends,  nor  weep  over  their  dying  beds  or  their  graves.  Thou  shalt 
never  suffer  thy  old  temptations  from  Satan,  the  world,  or  thy  own 
flesh.  Thy  pains  and  sickness  are  all  cured;  thy  body  shall  no  more 
burden  thee  with  weakness  and  weariness  ;  thy  aching  head  and  heart, 
thy  hunger  and  thirst,  thy  sleep  and  labor,  are  all  gone.  O  what  a 
mighty  change  is  this.  From  the  dunghill  to  the  throne !  From  per- 
secuting sinners  to  praising  saints !  From  a  vile  body  to  this  which 
shines  as  the  brisrhtness  of  the  firmament!  From  a  sense  of  God's 
displeasure  to  the  perfect  enjoyment  of  Him  in  love !  From  all  my 
fearful  thoughts  of  death  to  this  joyful  life !  Blessed  change !  Fare- 
well sin  and  sorrow  forever;  farewell  my  rocky,  proud,  unbelieving 
heart;  my  worldly,  sensual,  carnal  heart;  and  welcome  my  most 
holy,  heavenly  nature.  Farewell  repentance,  faith,  and  hope ;  and 
welcome  love,  and  joy,  and  praise.  I  shall  now  have  my  harvest  with- 
out ploughing  or  sowing:  my  joy  without  a  preacher  or  a  promise  : 
even  all  from  the  face  of  God  Himself.  W^hatever  mixture  is  in  the 
streams,  there  is  nothing  but  pure  joy  in  the  fountain.  Here  shall 
I  be  encircled  with  eternity,  and  ever  live,  and  ever,  ever  praise  the 
Lord.  My  face  will  not  wrinkle,  nor  my  hair  be  gray :  for  this  cor- 
j-uptible  shall  have  put  on  incorruption ;  and  this  mortal  immortality; 
and  death  shall  be  swallowed  up  in  victory.  O  death,  where  is  now 
thy  sting.?  O  grave,  where  is  thy  victory.?  The  date  of  my  lease  will 
no  more  expire,  nor  shall  I  trouble  m3^self  with  thoughts  of  death, 
nor  lose  my  joys  through  fear  of  losing  them.  When  millions  of 
ages  are  past,  my  glory  is  but  beginning;  and  when  millions  more 
are  past,  it  is  no  nearer  ending.  Every  day  is  all  noon,  every  montli 
is  harvest,  every  year  is  a  jubilee,  every  age  is  a  full  manhood,  and 
all  this  is  one  eternity.  O  blessed  eternity!  the  glory  of  my  glory, 
the  perfection  of  my  perfection. 


158  JOSEPH  HALL.  —  OWEN  FELTHAM.         Chap.  X. 

lis,  Joseph  Hall.     1574-1656.     (Manual,  p.  186.) 

(For  his  Poetry,  see  page  57.) 
The  Pleasure  of  Study. 

I  can  wonder  at  nothing  more  than  how  a  man  can  be  idle,  but  of 
all  others,  a  scholar;  in  so  many  improvements  of  reason,  in  such 
sweetness  of  knowledge,  in  such  variety  of  studies,  in  such  impor- 
tunity of  thoughts :  other  artisans  do  but  practise,  we  still  learn ; 
ot  lers  run  still  in  the  same  gyre  to  weariness,  to  satiety;  our  choice 
is  infinite;  other  labors  require  recreation;  our  very  labor  recreates 
our  sports ;  we  can  never  want  either  somewhat  to  do,  or  somewhat 
that  we  would  do.  How  numberless  are  the  volumes  which  men  have 
written  of  arts,  of  tongues  !  How  endless  is  that  volume  which  God 
hath  written  of  the  world !  wherein  every  creature  is  a  letter,  every 
day  a  new  page.  Who  can  be  weary  of  either  of  these.''  To  find  wit 
in  poetry;  in  philosophy  profoundness;  in  mathematics  acuteness ; 
in  history  wonder  of  events;  in  oratory  sweet  eloquence;  in  divinity 
supernatural  light  and  holy  devotion  ;  as  so  many  rich  metals  in  their 
proper  mines;  whom  would  it  not  ravish  with  delight.?  After  all 
these,  let  us  but  open  our  eyes,  we  cannot  look  beside  a  lesson,  in  this 
universal  book  of  our  Maker,  worth  our  study,  worth  taking  out. 
What  creature  hath  not  his  miracle.''  what  event  doth  not  challenge 
his  observation.?  How  many  busy  tongues  chase  away  good  hours 
in  pleasant  chat,  and  complain  of  the  haste  of  night!  What  ingen- 
ious mind  can  be  sooner  weary  of  talking  with  learned  authors,  the 
most  harmless  and  sweetest  companions.?  Let  the  world  contemn 
us;  while  we  have  these  delights  we  cannot  envy  them;  we  cannot 
wish  ourselves  other  than  we  are.  Besides,  the  way  to  all  other  con- 
tentments is  troublesome;  the  only  recompense  is  in  the  end.  But 
very  search  of  knowledge  is  delightsome.  Study  itself  is  our  life; 
from  which  we  would  not  be  barred  for  a  world.  How  much  sweeter 
then  is  the  fruit  of  study,  the  conscience  of  knowledge.?  In  com- 
parison whereof  the  soul  that  hath  once  tasted  it,  easily  contemns  all 
human  comforts. 


119.  Owen  Feltham.    Circa  1610-1677.    (Manual,  p.  1S6.) 

Sedulity  and  Diligence. 

There  is  no  such  prevalent  workman  as  sedulity  and  diligence. 
A  man  would  wonder  at  the  mighty  things  which  have  been  done  by 
degrees  and  gentle  augmentations.  Diligence  and  moderation  are 
the  best  steps  whereby  to  climb  to  any  excellency.  Nay,  it  is  rare 
if  there  be  any  other  way.  The  heavens  send  not  down  their  rain  in 
floods,  but  by  drops  and  dewy  distillations.  A  man  is  neither  good, 
nor  wise,  nor  rich,  at  once  :  yet  softly  creeping  up  these  hills,  he  shall 


A.  D.  1581-1613.       SIR   THOMAS   OVERBURY,  159 

every  day  better  his  prospect;  till  at  last  he  gains  the  top.  Now  he 
learns  a  virtue,  and  then  he  damns  ^  a  vice.  An  hour  in  a  day  may 
much  profit  a  man  in  his  study,  v^hen  he  makes  it  stint  and  custom. 
Every  year  something  laid  up.  may  in  time  make  a  stock  great.  Nay, 
if  a  man  does  but  save,  he  shall  increase;  and  though  when  the  grains 
are  scattered,  they  be  next  to  nothing,  yet  together  they  will  swell  the 
heap.  He  that  has  the  patience  to  attend  small  profits,  may  quickly 
grow  to  thrive  and  purchase  :  they  be  easier  to  accomplish,  and  come 
thicker.  So,  he  that  from  everything  collects  somewhat,  shall  in  time 
get  a  treasury  of  wisdom.  And  when  all  is  done,  for  man,  this  is  the 
best  way.  It  is  for  God,  and  for  Omnipotency,  to  do  mighty  things 
in  a  moment :  but,  degreeingly  to  grow  to  greatness,  is  the  courst* 
that  He  hath  left  for  man. 

1  Used  in  the  Latin  sense  of  (/amno,  to  condemn,  to  renounce. 


120,  Sir  Thomas  Overbury.     1581-1613.     (Manual, 

p.  186.) 

A  Fair  and  Happy  Milkmaid 

Is  a  country  wench,  that  is  so  far  from  making  herself  beautiful  by 
art,  that  one  look  of  hers  is  able  to  put  all  face-physic  out  of  coun- 
tenance. She  knows  a  fair  look  is  but  a  dumb  orator  to  commend 
virtue,  therefore  minds  it  not.  All  her  excellences  stand  in  her  so 
silently,  as  if  they  had  stolen  upon  her  without  her  knowledge.  The 
lining  of  her  apparel,  which  is  herself,  is  far  better  than  outsides  ol" 
tissues;  for  though  she  be  not  arrayed  in  the  spoil  of  the  silkworm, 
she  is  decked  in  innocence,  a  far  better  wearing.  She  doth  not,  with 
lying  long  in  bed,  spoil  both  her  complexion  and  conditions  :  nature 
hath  taught  her  too,  immoderate  sleep  is  rust  to  the  soul ;  she  rises 
therefore  with  Chanticlere,  her  dame's  cock,  and  at  night  makes  the 
lamb  her  curfew.  In  milking  a  cow,  and  straining  the  teats  through 
her  fingers,  it  seems  that  so  sweet  a  milk-press  makes  the  milk  whiter 
or  sweeter;  for  never  came  almond-glore  or  aromatic  ointment  on  her 
palm  to  taint  it.  The  golden  ears  of  corn  fall  and  kiss  her  feet  when 
she  reaps  them,  as  if  they  wished  to  be  bound  and  led  prisoners  by 
the  same  hand  that  felled  them.  Her  breath  is  her  own,  which  scents 
all  the  year  long  of  June,  like  a  new-made  haycock.  She  makes  her 
hand  hard  with  labor,  and  her  heart  soft  with  pity;  and  when  winter 
evenings  fall  early,  sitting  at  her  merry  wheel,  she  sings  defiance  to 
the  giddy  wheel  of  fortune.  She  doth  all  things  with  so  sweet  a  grace, 
it  seems  ignorance  will  not  suffer  her  to  do  ill,  being  her  mind  is  to  do 
well.  She  bestows  her  year's  wages  at  next  fair,  and  in  choosing  her 
garments,  counts  no  bravery  in  the  world  like  decency.  The  garden 
and  beehive  are  all  her  physic  and  surgery,  and  she  lives  the  longei 
for  it.     She  dares  go  alone  and  unfold  sheep  in  the  night,  and  fears 


160  SIE   THOMAS   OVERBURY.  Chap.  X. 

no  manner  of  ill,  because  she  means  none;  yet,  to  say  truth,  she  is 
never  alone,  but  is  still  accompanied  with  old  songs,  honest  thoughts, 
and  prayers,  but  short  ones;  yet  they  have  their  efficacy,  in  that  they 
are  not  palled  with  ensuing  idle  cogitations.  Lastly,  her  dreams 
are  so  chaste,  that  she  dare  tell  them;  only  a  Friday's  dream  is  all 
her  superstition  ;  that  she  conceals  for  fear  of  anger.  Thus  lives  she, 
and  all  her  care  is,  she  may  die  in  the  spring-time,  to  have  store  of 
llowei's  stuck  upon  her  winding-sheet. 


A.  T).  1608-1674.  JOHN  MILTON,  161 


CHAPTER  XI. 


John  Milton.     1608-1674.     (Manual,  p.  187-205.) 

121,    From  the  Hymn  of  the  Nativity. 

It  was  the  winter  wild, 
While  the  heaven-born  child 

All  meanlj  wrapt  in  the  rude  manager  lies  ; 
Nature,  in  awe  to  him, 
Had  doffed  her  gaudy  trim, 

With  her  great  Master  so  to  sympathize; 
It  was  no  season  then  for  her 
To  wanton  with  the  sun,  her  lusty  paramour. 

No  war,  or  battle's  sound 
Was  heard  the  world  around, 

The  idle  spear  and  shield  were  high  up  hung, 
The  hooked  chariot  stood 
Unstained  with  hostile  blood; 

The  trumpet  spake  not  to  the  armed  throng , 
And  kings  sat  still  with  awful  eye. 
As  if  they  surely  knew  their  sovereign  Lord  was  by. 

But  peaceful  was  the  night, 
Wherein  the  Prince  of  Light 

His  reign  of  peace  upon  the  earth  began: 
The  winds,  with  wonder  whist, 
Smoothly  the  waters  kissed, 

Whispering  new  joys  to  the  mild  ocean, 
Who  now  hath  quite  forget  to  rave. 
While  birds  of  calm  sit  brooding  on  the  charmed  wave. 


o 


The  stars,  with  deep  amaze, 
Stand  fixed  in  steadfast  gaze, 

Bending  one  way  their  precious  influence; 
And  will  not  take  their  flight. 
For  all  the  morning  light, 

Or  Lucifer,  that  often  warned  them  thence; 
But  in  their  glimmering  orbs  did  glow, 
Until  their  Lord  himself  bespake,  and  bid  them  go. 


162  JOHN  MILTON.  Chap.  XT 

The  shepherds  on  the  lawn, 
Or  e'er  the  point  of  dawn, 

Sat  simply  chatting  in  a  rustic  row; 
Full  little  thought  they  than, 
That  the  mighty  Pan 

Was  kindly  come  to  live  with  them  below; 
Perhaps  their  loves,  or  else  their  sheep, 
Was  all  that  did  their  silly  thoughts  so  busy  keep. 

When  such  music  sweet 

Their  hearts  and  ears  did  greet, 

As  never  was  by  mortal  finger  strook; 
Divinely-warbled  voice 
Answering  the  stringed  noise. 

As  all  their  souls  in  blissful  rapture  took : 
The  air,  such  pleasures  loath  to  lose, 
With  thousand  echoes  still  prolongs  each  heavenly  close. 

The  oracles  are  dumb, 
No  voice  or  hideous  hum 

Runs  through  the  arched  roof  in  words  deceiving. 
Apollo  from  his  shrine 
Can  no  more  divine, 

With  hollow  shriek  the  steep  of  Delphos  leaving. 
No  nightly  trance,  or  breathed  spell, 
Inspires  the  pale-eyed  priest  from  the  prophetic  cell. 

The  lonely  mountains  o'er 
And  the  resounding  shore, 

A  voice  of  weeping  heard  and  loud  lament; 
From  havmted  spring  and  dale, 
Edged  with  poplar  pale, 

The  parting  Genius  is  with  sighing  sent: 
With  flower-inwoven  tresses  torn, 
The  Nymphs,  in  twilight  shade  of  tangled  thickets,  mourn. 

In  consecrated  earth. 
And  on  the  holy  hearth. 

The  Lars  and  Lemures  moan  with  midnight  plaint; 
In  urns  and  altars  round, 
A  drear  and  dying  sound 

Affrights  the  Flamens  at  their  service  quaint; 
And  the  chill  marble  seems  to  sweat, 
While  each  peculiar  power  foregoes  his  wonted  seat. 

But  see,  the  Virgin  blessed 
Hath  laid  her  Babe  to  rest; 
Time  is,  our  tedious  song  should  here  have  ending: 


A.  D.  1608-1674.  JOHN  MILTON.  163 

Heaven's  youngest-teemed  star 
Hath  fixed  her  polished  car, 

Her  sleeping  Lord  with  handmaid  lamp  attending; 
And  all  about  the  courtly  stable 
Bright-harnessed  angels  sit  in  order  serviceable. 


122*    From  Comus. 

Song. 

Sweet  Echo,  sweetest  nymph,  that  liv'st  unseen 
Within  thy  aery  shell, 
By  slow  Meander's  margent  green 
And  in  the  violet-embroidered  vale. 

Where  the  love-lorn  nightingale 
Nightly  to  thee  her  sad  song  mourneth  well ; 
Canst  thou  not  tell  me  of  a  gentle  pair 
That  likest  thy  Narcissus  are? 
O  if  thou  have 
Hid  them  in  some  flowery  cave, 
Tell  me  but  where, 
Sweet  queen  of  parley,  daughter  of  the  sphere ! 
So  mayst  thou  be  translated  to  the  skies, 
And  give  resounding  grace  to  all  heaven's  harmonies. 

Enter  Comus. 

Comus.     Can  any  mortal  inixture  of  earth's  mould 
Breathe  such  divine  enchanting  ravishment? 
Sure  something  holy  lodges  in  that  breast, 
And  with  these  raptures  moves  the  vocal  air 
To  testify  his  hidden  residence. 
How  sweetly  did  they  float  upon  the  wings 
Of  silence,  through  the  empty-vaulted  night. 
At  every  fall  smoothing  the  raven-down 
Of  darkness,  till  it  smiled  !     I  have  oft  heard 
My  mother  Circe  with  the  sirens  three. 
Amid  the  flowery-kirtled  Naiades, 
Culling  their  potent  herbs  and  baleful  drugs; 
Who,  as  they  sung,  would  take  the  prisoned  soul, 
And  lap  it  in  Elysium  :  Scylla  wept. 
And  chid  her  barking  waves  into  attention, 
And  fell  Charybdis  mvirmured  soft  applause  : 
Yet  they  in  pleasing  slumber  lulled  the  sense, 
And  in  sweet  madness  robbed  it  of  itself; 
But  such  a  sacred  and  home-felt  delight. 
Such  sober  certainty  of  waking  bliss, 
I  never  heard  till  now.  —  I'll  speak  to  her, 


164  JOHN  MILTON.  Chap.  XL 

And  she  shall  be  my  queen.  —  Hail,  foreign  wonder  I 

Whom  certain  these  rough  shades  did  never  breed, 

Unless  the  goddess  that  in  rural  shrine 

Dwell'st  here  with  Pan,  or  Sylvan  :  by  blest  song 

Forbidding  every  bleak  unkindly  fog 

To  touch  the  prosperous  growth  of  this  tall  wood. 


123,   From  Lycidas. 

Where  were  ye.  Nymphs,  when  the  remorseless  deep 

Closed  o'er  the  head  of  your  loved  Lycidas.? 

For  neither  were  ye  playing  on  the  steep, 

Where  your  old  bards,  the  famous  Druids,  lie, 

Nor  on  the  shaggy  top  of  Mona  high, 

Nor  yet  where  Deva  spreads  her  wizard  stream. 

Ay  me !  I  fondly  dream  ! 

Had  ye  been  there  —  for  what  could  that  have  done? 

What  could  the  Muse  herself  that  Orpheus  bore, 

The  Muse  herself,  for  her  enchanting  son, 

Whom  universal  Nature  did  lament, 

When  by  the  rout  that  made  the  hideous  roar, 

His  gory  visage  down  the  stream  was  sent, 

Down  the  swift  Hebrus  to  the  Lesbian  shore.? 

Alas!  what  boots  it  with  uncessant  care 
To  tend  the  homely,  slighted  shepherd's  trade, 
And  strictly  meditate  the  thankless  Muse.? 
Were  it  not  better  done,  as  others  use, 
To  sport  with  Amaryllis  in  the  shade, 
Or  with  the  tangles  of  Nesera's  hair? 
Fame  is  the  spur  that  the  clear  spirit  doth  raise, 
(That  last  infirmity  of  noble  mind) 
To  scorn  delights,  and  live  laborious  days; 
But  the  fair  guerdon  when  we  hope  to  find, 
And  think  to  burst  out  into  sudden  blaze. 
Comes  the  blind  Fury  with  the  abhorred  shears, 
And  slits  the  thin-spun  life.     "But  not  the  praise,** 
Phoebus  replied,  and  touched  my  trembling  ears; 
"  Fame  is  no  plant  that  grows  on  mortal  soil, 
Nor  in  the  glistering  foil 

Set  off  to  the  world,  nor  in  broad  rumor  lies; 
But  lives  and  spreads  aloft  by  those  pure  eyes. 
And  perfect  witness  of  all-judging  Jove  : 
As  he  pronounces  lastly  on  each  deed, 
Of  so  much  fame  in  Heaven  expect  thy  meed.*' 


A  D.  1608-1674.  JOHN  MILTON.  165 

124:»   From  L' Allegro. 

Haste  thee,  Njmph,  and  bring  with  thee 
Jest  and  youthful  Jollity, 
Quips  and  Cranks,  and  wanton  Wiles, 
Nods,  and  Becks,  and  wreathed  Smiles, 
Such  as  hang  on  Hebe's  cheek. 
And  love  to  live  in  dimple  sleek; 
Sport  that  wrinkled  care  derides. 
And  Laughter  holding  both  his  sides. 
Come,  and  trip  it,  as  jou  go, 
On  the  light  fantastic  toe; 
And  in  thj  right  hand  lead  with  thee 
The  mountain-nymph,  sweet  Liberty ; 
And,  if  I  give  thee  honor  due, 
Mirth,  admit  me  of  thy  crew, 
To  live  with  her,  and  live  with  thee. 
In  unreproved  pleasures  free. 
To  hear  the  lark  begin  his  flight, 
And  singing  startle  the  dull  Night, 
From  his  watch-tower  in  the  skies. 
Till  the  dappled  Dawn  doth  rise; 
Then  to  come  in  spite  of  sorrow. 
And  at  my  window  bid  good  morrow, 
Through  the  sweet-brier  or  the  vine, 
Or  the  twisted  eglantine  : 
While  the  cock,  with  lively  din. 
Scatters  the  rear  of  darkness  thin. 
And  to  the  stack  or  the  barn  door 
Stoutly  struts  his  dames  before. 

4:  aic  He  *  *  *  * 

And  ever,  against  eating  cares. 
Lap  me  in  soft  Lydian  airs, 
Married  to  immortal  verse ; 
Such  as  the  meeting  soul  may  pierce. 
In  notes,  with  many  a  winding  bout 
Of  linked  sweetness  long  drawn  out. 
With  wanton  heed  and  giddy  cunning; 
The  melting  voice  through  mazes  running, 
Untwisting  all  the  chains  that  tie 
The  hidden  soul  of  harmony; 
That  Orpheus*  self  may  heave  his  head 
From  golden  slumber  on  a  bed 
Of  heaped  Elysian  flowers,  and  hear 
Such  strains  as  would  have  won  the  ear 
Of  Pluto,  to  have  quite  set  free 
His  half-regained  Eurydice. 

These  delights  if  thou  canst  give, 
Mirth,  with  thee  I  mean  to  live. 


166  JOHN  MILTON.  Chap.  XL 


123,   From  II  Penseroso. 

Come,  pensive  nun,  devout  and  pure, 

Sober,  steadfast,  and  demure, 

All  in  a  robe  of  darkest  grain, 

Flovi^ing  •with  majestic  train, 

And  sable  stole  of  Cyprus  lawn. 

Over  thj  decent  shoulders  dravi^n. 

Come,  but  keep  thy  w^onted  state. 

With  even  step  and  musing  gait; 

And  looks  commercing  with  the  skies, 

Thy  rapt  soul  sitting  in  thine  ej^es; 

There,  held  in  holy  passion  still, 

Forget  thyself  to  marble,  till 

With  a  sad  leaden  downward  cast 

Thou  fix  them  on  the  earth  as  fast : 

And  join  with  thee  calm  Peace  and  Quiet, 

Spare  Fast,  that  oft  with  gods  doth  diet, 

And  hears  the  Muses  in  a  ring 

Aye  round  about  Jove's  altar  sing: 

And  add  to  these  retired  Leisure, 

That  in  trim  gardens  takes  his  pleasure. 

But  first,  and  chiefest,  with  thee  bring 

Him  that  yon  soars  on  golden  wing, 

Guiding  the  fiery-wheeled  throne. 

The  cherub  Contemplation ; 

And  the  mute  Silence  hist  along, 

'Less  Philomel  will  deign  a  song. 

In  her  sweetest,  saddest  plight, 

Smoothing  the  rugged  brow  of  Night, 

While  Cynthia  checks  her  dragon  yoke. 

Gently  o'er  the  accustomed  oak : 

Sweet  bird,  that  shunn'st  the  noise  of  folly. 

Most  musical,  most  melancholy  1 

Thee,  chantress,  oft,  the  woods  among, 

I  woo,  to  hear  thy  even-song ; 

And,  missing  thee,  I  walk  unseen 

On  the  dry  smooth-shaven  green 

To  behold  the  wandering  moon, 

Riding  near  her  highest  noon, 

Like  one  that  had  been  led  astray 

Through  the  heaven's  wide  pathless  way; 

And  oft,  as  if  her  head  she  bowed, 

Stooping  through  a  fleecy  cloud 

Oft,  on  a  plat  of  rising  ground, 

I  hear  the  far-off  Curfew  sound, 

Over  some  wide-watered  shore, 

Swinging  slo\»  with  sullen  roar. 


A.  D.  1608-1674.  JOHN  MILTON.  167 

From  "  Paradise  Lost.'* 

120*   Exordium  of  Book  I. 

Of  man's  first  disobedience,  and  the  fruit 
Of  that  forbidden  tree,  whose  mortal  taste 
Brought  death  into  the  world,  and  all  our  woe, 
With  loss  of  Eden,  till  one  greater  Man 
Restore  us,  and  regain  the  blissful  seat. 
Sing,  heavenly  Muse,  that  on  the  secret  top 
Of  Oreb,  or  of  Sinai,  didst  inspire 
That  Shepherd,  who  first  taught  the  chosen  seed, 
In  the  beginning,  how  the  Heavens  and  Earth 
Rose  out  of  Chaos :  Or,  if  Sion  hill 
Delight  thee  more,  and  Siloa's  brook  that  flowed 
Fast  by  the  oracle  of  God ;  I  thence 
Invoke  thy  aid  to  my  adventurous  song. 
That  with  no  middle  flight  intends  to  soar 
Above  the  Aonian  mount,  while  it  pursues 
Things  unattempted  yet  in  prose  or  rhyme. 
'  And  chiefly  thou,  O  Spirit,  that  dost  prefer 
Before  all  temples  the  upright  heart  and  pure. 
Instruct  me,  for  thou  know'st;  thou  from  the  first 
Wast  present,  and,  with  mighty  wings  outspread, 
Dove-like  satt'st  brooding  on  the  vast  abj'ss 
And  mad'st  it  pregnant:  what  in  me  is  dark 
Illumine;  what  is  low  raise  and  support; 
That  to  the  height  of  this  great  argument 
I  may  assert  eternal  Providence, 
And  justify  the  ways  of  God  to  men. 


127.   Satan.     (Book  I.) 

He  scarce  had  ceased  when  the  superior  fiend 

Was  moving  toward  the  shore  :  his  ponderous  shield, 

Ethereal  temper,  massy,  large  and  round. 

Behind  him  cast;  the  broad  circumference 

Hunsf  on  his  shoulders  like  the  Moon,  whose  orb 

Through  optic  glass  the  Tuscan  artist  views 

At  evening  from  the  top  of  Fesole, 

Or  in  Valdarno,  to  descry  new  lands. 

Rivers,  or  mountains  in  her  spotty  globe. 

His  spear,  to  equal  which  the  tallest  pine 

Hewn  on  Norwegian  hills,  to  be  the  mast 

Of  some  great  ammiral,  were  but  a  wand, 

He  walked  with,  to  support  uneasy  steps 


168  ^    JOHN  MILTON.  Chap.  XI 

Over  the  burning  marie,  not  like  those  steps 

On  Heaven's  azure;  and  the  torrid  clime 

Smote  on  him  sore  besides,  vaulted  w^ith  fire  : 

Nathless  he  so  endured  till  on  the  beach 

Of  that  inflamed  sea  he  stood,  and  called 

His  legions,  angel  forms,  who  lay  entranced, 

Thick  as  autumnal  leaves  that  strew  the  brooks 

In  Vallombrosa,  where  the  Etrurian  shades, 

High  over-arched,  embower;  or  scattered  sedge 

Afloat,  when  with  fierce  winds  Orion  armed 

Hath  vexed  the  Red-Sea  coast,  whose  waves  o'erthrew 

Busiris  and  his  Memphian  chivalry, 

"While  with  perfidious  hatred  they  pursued 

The  sojourners  of  Goshen,  who  beheld 

From  the  safe  shore  their  floating  carcasses 

And  broken  chariot  wheels  :  so  thick  bestrewn, 

Abject  and  lost  lay  these,  covering  the  flood. 

Under  amazement  of  their  hideous  change. 

He  called  so  loud,  that  all  the  hollow  deep 

Of  Hell  resounded.     "  Princes,  potentates, 

Warriors,  the  flower  of  Heaven,  once  yours,  now  lost? 

If  such  astonishment  as  this  can  seize 

Eternal  spirits ;  or  have  ye  chosen  this  place. 

After  the  toil  of  battle  to  repose 

Your  wearied  virtue,  for  the  ease  you  find 

To  slumber  here,  as  in  the  vales  of  Heaven? 

Or  in  this  abject  posture  have  ye  sworn 

T'  adore  the  Conqueror  .f*  who  now  beholds 

Cherub  and  seraph  rolling  in  the  flood 

With  scattered  arms  and  ensigns,  till  anon 

His  swift  pursuers,  from  Heaven-gates,  discern 

1  h'  advantage,  and,  descending,  tread  us  down 

Thus  drooping,  or  with  linked  thunderbolts 

Transfix  us  to  the  bottom  of  this  gulf. 

Awake,  arise,  or  be  forever  fallen." 


12 S»   Pandemonium.     (Book  I.) 

Anon,  out  of  the  earth  a  fabric  huge 
Rose  like  an  exhalation,  with  the  sound 
Of  dulcet  symphonies  and  voices  sweet. 
Built  like  a  temple,  where  pilasters  round 
Were  set,  and  Doric  pillars  overlaid 
With  golden  architrave ;  nor  did  there  want 
Cornice  or  frieze,  with  bossy  sculptures  graven  r 
The  roof  was  fretted  gold.    Not  Babylon, 


A.  D.  1608-1674.  JOHN  MILTON,  169 

Nor  great  Alcairo,  guch  magnificence 

Equalled  in  all  their  glories,  to  enshrine 

Belus  or  Serapis  their  gods,  or  seat 

Their  kings,  when  Egypt  with  Assyria  strove 

In  wealth  and  luxury.     The  ascending  pile 

Stood  fixed  her  stately  height :  and  straight  the  doora. 

Opening  their  brazen  folds,  discover,  wide 

Within,  her  ample  spaces,  o'er  the  smooth 

And  level  pavement;  from  the  arched  roof, 

Pendent  by  subtle  magic,  many  a  row 

Of  starry  lamps  and  blazing  cressets,  fed 

With  naphtha  and  asphaltus,  yielded  light 

As  from  a  sky. 


120*   Death  and  Satan.     (Book  IL) 

The  other  shape, 
If  shape  it  might  be  called  that  shape  had  none 
Distinguishable  in  member,  joint,  or  limb; 
Or  substance  might  be  called  that  shadow  seemed. 
For  each  seemed  either :  black  it  stood  as  night, 
Fierce  as  teia  furies,  terrible  as  Hell, 
And  shook  a  dreadful  dart;  what  seemed  his  head 
The  likeness  of  a  kinglv  crov*'n  had  on. 
Satan  was  now  at  hand,  and  from  his  seat 
The  monster  moving  onward  came  as  fast 
With  horrid  strides ;  Hell  trembled  as  he  strode. 
The  undaunted  fiend  what  this  might  be  admired, 
Admired,  not  feared;  God  and  his  Son  except. 
Created  thing  naught  valued  he,  nor  shunned; 
And  with  disdainful  look  thus  first  began  : 

■"  Whence  and  what  art  tliou,  execrable  shape, 
Thatdar^st,  though  grim  and  terrible,  advance 
Thy  miscreated  front  athwart  my  way 
To  yonder  gates?  through  them  I  mean  to  pass, 
That  be  assured,  without  leave  asked  of  thee  : 
Retire,  or  taste  thy  folly,  and  learn  by  proof 
Hell-born,  not  to  contend  with  spirits  of  Heaven." 

To  whom  the  goblin  full  of  wrath  replied : 
*'  Art  thou  that  traitor-angel,  art  thou  he, 
Who  first  broke  peace  in  Heaven,  and  faith,  till  then 
Unbroken;  and  in  proud  rebellious  arms 
Drew  after  him  the  third  part  of  Heaven's  sons 
Conjured  against  the  Highest;  for  which  both  thou 
And  they,  outcast  from  God,  are  here  condemned 
To  waste  eternal  days  in  woe  and  pain.^ 
And  reckon'st  tliou  thyself  with  spirits  of  Heaven, 


170  JOHN  MILTON.  Chap.  XI 

Hell-doomed,  and  breath'st  defiance  here  and  scorn, 

Where  I  reign  king,  and,  to  enrage  thee  more, 

Thy  king  and  lord  ?     Back  to  thy  punishment. 

False  fugitive,  and  to  thy  speed  add  wings, 

Lest  with  a  whip  of  scorpions  I  pursue 

Thy  lingering,  or  with  one  stroke  of  this  dart 

Strange  horror  seize  thee,  and  pangs  unfelt  before." 

So  spake  the  grisly  terror,  and  in  shape,  « 

So  speaking  and  so  threatening,  grew  tenfold 
More  dreadful  and  deform.     On  the  other  side, 
Incensed  with  indignation,  Satan  stood 
Unterrified,  and  like  a  comet  burned, 
That  fires  the  length  of  Ophiucus  huge 
In  the  arctic  sky,  and  from  his  horrid  hair 
Shakes  pestilence  and  war.     Each  at  the  head 
Levelled  his  deadly  aim ;  their  fatal  hands 
No  second  stroke  intend ;  and  such  a  frown 
Each  cast  at  the  other,  as  when  two  black  clouds. 
With  Heaven's  artillery  fraught,  come  rattling  on 
Over  the  Caspian,  then  stand  front  to  front, 
Hovering  a  space,  till  winds  the  signal  blow 
To  join  their  dark  encounter  in  mid  air : 
So  frowned  the  mighty  combatants,  that  Hell 
Grew  darker  at  their  frown ;  so  matched  they  stood 
For  never  but  once  more  was  either  like 
To  meet  so  great  a  foe. 


130m   Invocation  to  Light.     (Book  III.) 

Hail,  holy  Light,  offspring  of  Heaven,  first-born. 

Or  of  the  Eternal  coeternal  beam, 

May  I  express  thee  unblamed.?  since  God  is  light, 

And  never  but  in  unapproached  light 

Dwelt  from  eternity,  dwelt  then  in  thee. 

Bright  effluence  of  bright  essence  increate. 

Or  hear'st  thou  rather,  pure  ethereal  stream. 

Whose  fountain  who  shall  tell.?     Before  the  Sun> 

Before  the  Heavens  thou  wert,  and  at  the  voice 

Of  God,  as  with  a  mantle,  didst  invest 

The  rising  world  of  waters  dark  and  deep. 

Won  from  the  void  and  formless  infinite. 

Thee  I  revisit  now  with  bolder  wing. 

Escaped  the  Stygian  pool,  though  long  detained 

In  that  obscure  sojourn,  while,  in  my  flight. 

Through  utter  and  through  middle  darkness  borne. 

With  other  notes  than  to  the  Orphean  lyre, 

I  sung  of  Chaos  ani  eternal  Night; 


A.  D.  1608-1674.  JOHN  MILTON.  171 

Taught  by  the  heavenly  Muse  to  venture  down 

The  dark  descent,  and  up  to  re-ascend, 

Though  hard  and  rare  :  thee  I  revisit  safe, 

And  feel  thy  sovran  vital  lamp :  but  thou 

Revisit'st  not  these  eyes,  that  roll  in  vain 

To  find  thy  piercing  ray,  and  find  no  dawn; 

So  thick  a  drop  serene  hath  quenched  their  orbs, 

Or  dim  suffusion  veiled.     Yet  not  the  more 

Cease  I  to  wander,  where  the  Muses  haunt 

Clear  spring,  or  shady  grove,  or  sunny  hill, 

Smit  with  the  love  of  sacred  song;  but  chief 

Thee,  Sion,  and  the  flowery  brooks  beneath, 

That  wash  thy  hallowed  feet,  and  warbling  flow, 

Nightly  I  visit:  nor  sometimes  forget 

Those  other  two,  equalled  with  me  in  fate 

So  were  I  equalled  with  them  in  renown, 

Blind  Thamyris,  and  blind  Mseonides, 

And  Tiresias,  and  Phineus,  prophets  old : 

Then  feed  on  thoughts,  that  voluntary  move 

Harmonious  numbers;  as  the  wakeful  bird 

Sings  darkling,  and  in  shadiest  covert  hid. 

Tunes  her  nocturnal  note.     Thus  with  the  year 

Seasons  return ;  but  not  to  me  returns 

Day,  or  the  sweet  approach  of  even  or  morn. 

Or  sight  of  vernal  bloom,  or  summer's  rose, 

Or  flocks,  or  herds,  or  human  face  divine; 

But  cloud  instead,  and  ever-during  dark 

Surrounds  me,  from  the  cheerful  ways  of  men 

Cut  off,  and  for  the  book  of  knowledge  fair 

Presented  with  a  universal  blank 

Of  Nature's  works,  to  me  expunged  and  rased, 

And  wisdom  at  one  entrance  quite  shut  out. 

So  much  the  rather  thou,  celestial  Light, 

Shine  inward,  and  the  mind  through  all  her  powers 

Irradiate  :  there  plant  eyes,  all  mist  from  thence 

Purge  and  disperse,  that  I  may  see  and  tell 

Of  things  invisible  to  mortal  sight. 


131.    Eden.     (Book  IV.) 

Thus  was  this  place 
A  happy  rural  seat  of  various  view; 
Groves  whose  rich  trees  wept  odorous  gums  and  balm* 
Others  whose  fruit,  burnished  with  golden  rind, 
Hung  amiable,  Hesperian  fables  true. 
If  true,  here  only,  and  of  delicious  taste : 


172  JOHN  MILTON.  Chap.  XI. 

Betwixt  them  lawns,  or  level  downs,  and  flocks 
Grazing  the  tender  herb,  were  interposed ; 
Or  palmy  hillock,  or  the  flowery  lap 
Of  some  irriguous  valley  spread  her  store, 
Flowers  of  all  hue,  and  without  thorn  the  rose  : 
Another  side,  umbrageous  grots  and  caves 
Of  cool  recess,  o'er  which  the  mantling  vine 
Lays  forth  her  purple  grape,  and  gently  creeps 
Luxuriant;  meanwhile  murmuring  waters  fall 
Down  the  slope  hills,  dispersed,  or  in  a  lake, 
That  to  the  fringed  bank  with  myrtle  crowned 
Her  crystal  mirror  holds,  unite  their  streams. 
The  birds  their  quire  apply;  airs,  vernal  airs, 
Breathing  the  smell  of  field  and  grove,  attune 
The  trembling  leaves,  while  universal  Pan, 
Knit  with  the  Graces  and  the  Hours  in  dance. 
Led  on  the  eternal  Spring. 


132*    Adam  and  Eve.     (Book  IV.) 

Two  of  far  nobler  shape,  erect  and  tall, 
Godlike  erect,  with  native  honor  clad. 
In  naked  majesty  seemed  lords  of  all 
And  worthy  seemed  :  for  in  their  looks  divine 
The  image  of  their  glorious  Maker  shone. 
Truth,  wisdom,  sanctitude  severe  and  pure 
(Severe,  but  in  true  filial  freedom  placed), 
Whence  true  authority  in  men ;  though  both 
Not  equal,  as  their  sex  not  equal  seemed; 
For  contemplation  he  and  valor  formed  ; 
iFor  softness  she,  and  sweet  attractive  grace ; 
(He  for  God  only,  she  for  God  in  him :  ' 
His  fair  large  front  and  eye  sublime  declared 
Absolute  rule;  and  hyacinthine  locks 
Round  from  his  parted  forelock  manly  hung 
Clustering,  but  not  beneath  his  shoulders  broad 
She,  as  a  veil,  down  to  the  slender  waist 
Her  unadorned  golden  tresses  wore 
Dishevelled,  but  in  wanton  ringlets  waved. 
As  the  vine  curls  her  tendrils,  which  implied 
Subjection,  but  required  with  gentle  sway, 
And  by  her  yielded,  by  him  best  received, 
Yielded  with  coy  submission,  modest  pride, 
And  sweet,  reluctant,  amorous  delay. 


A.  D.  1608-1674.  JOHN  MILTON.  173 


133,   Evening  in  Eden.     (Book  IV.) 

Now  came  still  Evening  on,  and  Twilight  gray 
Had  in  her  sober  livery  all  things  clad ; 
Silence  accompanied;  for  beast  and  bird, 
They  to  their  grassy  couch,  these  to  their  nests, 
Were  slunk,  all  but  the  wakeful  nightingale  : 
She  all  night  long  her  amorous  descant  sung; 
Silence  was  pleased  :  now  glowed  the  firmament 
With  living  sapphires  :  Hesperus,  that  led 
The  starry  host,  rode  brightest,  till  the  Moon, 
Rising  in  clouded  majesty,  at  length 
Apparent  queen,  unveiled  her  peerless  light, 
And  o'er  the  dark  her  silver  mantle  threw. 


134:»   Morning  Prayer  of  Adam  and  Eve.  (Book  V.; 

These  are  thy  glorious  works.  Parent  of  good, 

Almighty!     Thine  this  universal  frame, 

Thus  wondrous  fair :  Thyself  how  wondrous  then. 

Unspeakable !  who  sitt'st  above  these  heavens 

To  us  invisible,  or  dimly  seen 

In  these  thy  lowest  works ;  yet  these  declare 

Thy  goodness  beyond  thought,  and  power  divine. 

Speak,  ye  who  best  can  tell,  ye  sons  of  light. 

Angels  :  for  ye  behold  him,  and  with  songs 

And  choral  symphonies,  day  without  night. 

Circle  his  throne  rejoicing;  ye  in  heaven. 

On  earth  join  all  ye  creatures  to  extol 

Him  first,  him  last,  him  midst,  and  without  end. 

Fairest  of  stars,  last  in  the  train  of  night,    • 

If  better  thou  belong  not  to  the  dawn, 

Sure  pledge  of  day,  that  crown'st  the  smiling  morn 

With  thy  bright  circlet,  praise  him  in  thy  sphere. 

While  day  arises,  that  sweet  hour  of  prime. 

Thou  sun,  of  this  great  world  both  eye  and  soul. 

Acknowledge  him  thy  greater;  sound  his  praise 

In  thy  eternal  course,  both  when  thou  climb' st. 

And  when  high  noon  hast  gained,  and  when  thou  fall'st. 

Moon,  that  now  meet'st  the  orient  sun,  now  fly'st, 

With  the  fixed  stars,  fixed  in  their  orb  that  flies; 

And  ye  five  other  wandering  fires,  that  move 

In  mystic  dance  not  without  song,  resound 

His  praise,  who  out  of  darkness  called  up  light. 

Air,  and  ye  elements,  the  eldest  birth 

Of  nature's  womb,  that  in  quaternion  run 


174  JOHN  MILTON,  Chap.  XL 

Perpetual  circle,  multiform  ;  and  mix 
And  nourish  all  things;  let  your  ceaseless  change 
Vary  to  our  great  Maker  still  new  praise. 
Ye  mists  and  exhalations,  that  now  rise 
From  hill  or  steaming  lake,  dusky  or  gray, 
Till  the  sun  paint  your  fleecy  skirts  with  gold, 
In  honor  to  the  world's  great  Author  rise ; 
Whether  to  deck  with  clouds  the  uncolored  sky, 
Or  wet  the  thirsty  earth  with  falling  showers, 
Rising  or  falling,  still  advance  his  praise. 
His  praise,  ye  winds,  that  from  four  quarters  blow, 
Breathe  soft  or  loud ;  and  wave  your  tops,  ye  pines. 
With  every  plant,  in  sign  of  worship  wave. 
Fountains,  and  ye  that  warble  as  ye  flow. 
Melodious  murmurs,  warbling  tune  his  praise. 
Join  voices,  all  ye  living  souls  :  ye  birds. 
That,  singing,  up  to  heaven-gate  ascend, 
Bear  on  your  wings  and  in  your  notes  his  praise. 
Ye  that  in  waters  glide,  and  ye  that  walk 
'  The  earth,  and  stately  tread,  or  lowly  creep; 
Witness  if  I  be  silent,  morn  or  even, 
To  hill  oi  valley,  fountain  or  fresh  shade. 
Made  vocal  by  my  song,  and  taught  his  praise. 
Hail,  universal  Lord!  be  bounteous  still 
To  give  us  only  good ;  and  if  the  night 
Have  gathered  aught  of  evil  or  concealed, 
Disperse  it,  as  now  light  dispels  the  dark. 


From  **  Paradise  Regained." 

135,   Athens.     (Book  IV.) 

Look  once  more,  ere  we  leave  this  specular  mount, 

Westward,  much  nearer  by  south-west;  behold 

Where  on  the  yEgean  shore  a  city  stands. 

Built  nobly;  pure  the  air,  and  light  the  soil; 

Athens,  the  eye  of  Greece,  mother  of  arts 

And  eloquence,  native  to  famous  wits. 

Or  hospitable,  in  her  sweet  recess. 

City,  or  suburban,  studious  walks  and  shades : 

See  there  the  olive  grove  of  Academe, 

Plato's  retirement,  where  the  Attic  bird 

Trills  her  thick-warbled  notes  the  summer  long; 

There  flowery  hill  Hymettus  with  the  sound 

Of  bees'  industrious  murmur  oft  invites 

To  studious  musing:  there  Ilissus  rolls 

His  whispering  stream  :  within  the  walls  then  view 


'^.  D.  1G08-1674.  JOHN  MILTON.  175 

The  schools  of  ancient  sages;  his  who  bred 

Great  Alexander  to  subdue  the  world, 

Lyceum  there,  and  painted  Stoa  next: 

There  shalt  thou  hear  and  learn  the  secret  power 

Of  harmony,  in  tones  and  numbers  hit 

By  voice  or  hand;  and  various-measured  verse, 

^olian  charms  and  Dorian  lyric  odes, 

And  his  who  gave  them  breatii,  but  higher  sung. 

Blind  Melesigenes,  thence  Homer  called. 

Whose  poem  Phcebus  challenged  for  his  own  : 

Thence  what  the  lofty  grave  tragedians  taught 

In  chorus  or  iambic,  teachers  best 

Of  moral  prudence,  with  delight  received 

In  brief  sententious  precepts,  while  they  treat 

Of  fate,  and  chance,  and  change  in  human  life; 

High  actions,  and  high  passions  best  describing: 

Thence  to  the  famous  orators  repair, 

Those  ancient,  whose  resistless  eloquence 

Wielded  at  will  that  fierce  democratic, 

Shook  the  arsenal,  and  fulmined  over  Greece 

To  Macedon  and  Artaxerxes'  throne  : 

To  sage  Philosophy  next  lend  thine  ear, 

FromTleaven  descended  to  the  low-roofed  house 

Of  Socrates;  see  there  his  tenement, 

Whom,  well  inspired,  the  oracle  pronounced 

Wisest  of  men  ;  from  whose  niouth  issued  forth 

Mellifluous  streams,  that  v/atered  all  the  schook 

Of  AcadeiT^ics  old  and  new,  with  those 

Surnamed  Peripatetics,  and  the  sect 

Epicurean,  and  the  Stoic  severe  : 

Th'-cse  here  revolve,  or,  as  thou  likest,  at  home. 

Till  time  mature  thee  to  a  kingdom's  weight : 

These  rules  will  render  thee  a  king  complete 

Within  thyself;  much  more  with  empire  joined. 


From  "  Samson  Agonistes." 

130*    Lament  of  Samson. 

O  loss  of  sight,  of  thee  I  most  complain  I 

Blind  among  enemies,  O  worse  than  chains, 

Dungeon,  or  beggary,  or  decrepit  age! 

Light,  the  prime  work  of  God,  to  me  is  extinct, 

And  all  her  various  objects  of  delight 

Annulled,  which  might  in  part  my  grief  have  eased, 

Inferior  to  the  vilest  now  become 

Of  man  or  worm ;  the  vilest  here  excel  me  : 


176  JOHN  MILTON.  Cha?.  XL 

They  creep,  jet  see;  I,  dark  in  light,  exposed 

To  daily  fraud,  contempt,  abvise,  and  wrong, 

Within  doors  or  without,  still  as  a  fool, 

In  power  of  others,  never  in  my  own ; 

Scarce  half  I  seem  to  live,  dead  more  than  half. 

O  dark,  dark,  dark,  amid  the  blaze  of  noon, 

Irrecoverably  dark,  total  eclipse 

Without  all  hope  of  day ! 

O  first-created  Beam,  and  thou  great  Word, 

*'  Let  there  be  light,  and  light  was  over  all;  ** 

Why  am  I  thus  bereaved  thy  prime  decree  ? 

The  sun  to  me  is  dark, 

And  silent  as  the  moon. 

When  she  deserts  the  night, 

Hid  in  her  vacant  interlunar  cave. 

Since  light  so  necessary  is  to  life, 

And  almost  life  itself,  if  it  be  true 

That  light  is  in  the  soul. 

She  all  in  every  part;  why  was  this  sight 

To  such  a  tender  ball  as  the  eye  confined, 

So  obvious  and  easy  to  be  quenched? 

And  not,  as  feeling,  through  all  parts  diffused. 

That  she  might  look  at  will  through  ever^  poie? 

Then  had  I  not  been  thus  exiled  from  light, 

As  in  the.  land  of  darkness,  yet  in  light, 

To  live  a  life  "half  dead,  a  living  death. 

And  buried  ;  but,  O  yet  more  miserable  ! 

Myself  my  sepulchre,  a  moving  grave  j 

Buried,  yet  not  exempt. 

By  privilege  of  death  and  buriaf. 

From  worst  of  other  evils,  pains,  and  wrongs; 

But  made  hereby  obnoxious  more 

To  all  the  miseries  of  life, 

Life  in  captivity 

Among  inhuman  foes. 


From  the  Sonnets. 

137 »   Sonnet  on  his  own  Blindness. 

When  I  consider  how  my  light  is  spent 

Ere  half  my  days,  in  this  dark  world  and  wide, 
And  that  one  talent  which  is  death  to  hide, 
Lodged  with  me  useless,  though  my  soul  inore  bent 
To  serve  therewith  my  Maker,  and  present 
My  true  account,  lest  He,  returning,  chide; 
"  Doth  God  exact  day-labor,  light  denied?" 


A.  D.  1608-1674.  JOHN  MILTON.  177 

I  fondly  ask :  but  Patience,  to  prevent 

That  murmur,  soon  replies,  "God  doth  not  need  I 

Either  man's  work,  or  his  own  gifts ;  who  best  | 

Bear  his  mild  yoke,  they  serve  him  best;  his  state  ■•» 
Is  kingly;  thousands  at  his  bidding  speed, 

And  post  o'er  land  and  ocean  without  rest : 

They  also  serve  who  only  stand  and  wait." 


13 St   On  the  late  Massacre  in  Piedmont. 

Avenge,  O  Lord,  thy  slaughtered  saints,  whose  bones 
Lie  scattered  on  the  Alpine  mountains  cold ; 
Even  them  who  kept  thy  truths  so  pure  of  old, 
When  all  our  fathers  worshipped  stocks  and  stones. 

Forget  not :  in  thy  book  record  their  groans 
Who  were  thy  sheep,  and  in  their  ancient  fold 
Slain  by  the  bloody  Piedmontese,  that  rolled 
Mother  with  infant  down  the  rocks.     Their  moans 

The  vales  redoubled  to  the  hills,  and  they 

To  heaven.     Their  martyred  blood  and  ashes  sow 
O'er  all  the  Italian  fields,  where  still  doth  sway 

The  triple  tyrant;  that  from  these  may  grow 
A  hundred  fold,  who,  having  learned  thy  way, 
Early  m.ay  fly  the  Babylonian  woe. 


From  the  Areopagitica. 

130*    Argument  for  the  Liberty  of  the  Press. 

I  deny  not  but  that  it  is  of  greatest  concernment  in  the  church  and 
commonwealth  to  have  a  vigilant  eye  how  books  demean  themselves, 
as  well  as  men,  and  thereafter  to  confine,  imprison,  and  do  sharpest 
justice  on  them  as  malefactors, — for  books  are  not  absolutely  dead 
things,  but  do  contain  a  progeny  of  life  in  them  to  be  as  active  as  that 
soul  was  whose  progeny  they  are ;  nay,  they  do  preserve,  as  in  a  vial, 
the  purest  efficacy  and  extraction  of  that  living  intellect  that  bred 
them.  I  know  they  are  as  lively  and  as  vigorously  productive  as  those 
fabulous  dragon's  teeth ;  and,  being  sown  up  and  down,  may  chance 
to  spring  up  armed  men.  And  yet,  on  the  other  hand,  unless  wari- 
ness be  used,  as  good  almost  kill  a  man  as  kill  a  good  book.  Who 
kills  a  man  kills  a  reasonable  creature,  God's  image;  but  he  who 
destroys  a  good  book,  kills  reason  itself;  kills  the  image  of  God,  as  it 
were,  in  the  eye.  Many  a  man  lives  a  burden  to  the  earth ;  but  a 
good  book  is  the  precious  life-blood  of  a  master-spirit,  embalmed  and 
treasured  up  on  purpose  to  a  life  beyond  life.  It  is  true  no  age  can 
restore  a  life,  whereof,  perhaps,  there  is  no  great  loss ;  and  revolutions 

12 


178  JOHN  MILTON.  Chap.  Xi. 

of  ages  do  not  oft  reco^^er  the  loss  of  a  rejected  truth,  for  the  want  of 
which  whole  nations  fare  the  worse.  We  should  be  wary,  therefore, 
what  persecution  we  raise  against  the  living  labors  of  public  men, 
how  we  spill  that  seasoned  life  of  man  preserved  and  stored  up  in 
books,  since  we  see  a  kind  of  homicide  may  be  thus  committed,  — 
sometimes  a  martyrdom ;  and  if  it  extend  to  the  whole  impression,  a 
kind  of  massacre,  whereof  the  execution  ends  not  in  the  slaying  of  an 
elemental  life,  but  strikes  at  the  ethereal  and  fifth  essence, — the 
breath  of  reason  itself;  slays  an  immortality  rather  than  a  life.  *  * 
Lest  some  should  persuade  ye,  Lords  and  Commons,  that  these  argu- 
ments of  learned  men's  discouragement  at  this  your  order  are  mere 
flourishes,  and  not  real,  I  could  recount  what  I  have  seen  and  heard 
in  other  countries,  where  this  kind  of  inquisition  tyrannizes  :  when  I 
have  sat  among  their  learned  men  (for  that  honor  I  had),  and  been 
counted  happy  to  be  born  in  such  a  place  of  philosophic  freedom,  as 
they  supposed  England  was,  while  themselves  did  nothing  but  bemoan 
the  servile  condition  into  which  learning  amongst  them  was  brought; 
that  this  was  it  which  had  damped  the  glory  of  Italian  wits ;  that 
nothing  had  been  there  written  now  these  many  years  but  flattery  and 
fustian.  There  it  was  that  I  found  and  visited  the  famous  Galileo, 
grown  old,  a  prisoner  to  the  inquisition,  for  thinking  in  astronomy 
otherwise  than  the  Franciscan  and  Dominican  licensers  thought. 
And  though  I  knew  that  England  then  was  groaning  loudest  under 
the  prelatical  yoke,  nevertheless  I  took  it  as  a  pledge  of  future  happi- 
ness that  other  nations  were  so  persuaded  of  her  liberty.  Ye^  it  was 
beyond  my  hope  that  those  worthies  were  then  breathing  in  her  air, 
who  should  be  her  leaders  to  such  a  deliverance,  as  shall  never  be  for- 
gotten by  any  revolution  of  time  that  this  world  hath  to  finish.  Lords 
and  Commons  of  England!  consider  what  nation  it  is  whereof  ye  are, 
and  whereof  ye  are  the  governors;  a  nation  not  slow  and  dull,  but  of 
a  quick,  ingenious,  and  piercing  spirit;  acute  to  invent,  subtle  and 
sinewy  to  discourse,  not  beneath  the  reach  of  any  point  the  highest 
that  human  capacity  can  soar  to.  Therefore  the  studies  of  learning 
in  her  deepest  sciences  have  been  so  ancient  and  so  eminent  among 
us,  that  writers  of  good  antiquity  and  able  judgment  have  been  per- 
suaded that  even  the  school  of  Pythagoras  and  the  Persian  wisdom 
took  beginning  from  the  old  philosophy  of  this  island.  And  that 
wise  and  civil  Roman,  Julius  Agricola,  who  governed  once  here  for 
Caesar,  preferred  the  natural  wits  of  Britain,  before  the  labored  studies 
of  the  PVench.  Behold  now  this  vast  city;  a  city  of  refuge,  the  man- 
sion-house of  liberty,  encompassed  and  surrounded  with  his  protec- 
tion ;  the  shop  of  war  hath  not  there  more  anvils  and  hammers  wak- 
ing, to  fashion  out  the  plates  and  instruments  of  armed  justice  in 
defence  of  beleaguered  truth,  than  there  be  pens  and  heads  there, 
sitting  by  their  studious  lamps,  musing,  searching,  revolving  new  no- 
tions and  ideas,  wherewith  to  present,  as  with  their  homage  and  their 
fealty,  the  approaching  reformation;  others  as  fast  reading,  trying  all 
things,  assenting  to  the  force  of  reason  and  convincement.  *         • 


A.  D.  1608-1674.  JOHN  MILTON,  179 

This  is  a  lively  and  cheerful  presage  of  our  happy  success  and  vic- 
tory. For  as  in  a  body  when  the  blood  is  fresh,  the  spirits  pure  and 
vigorous,  not  only  to  vital,  but  to  rational  faculties,  and  those  in  the 
acutest  and  the  pertest  operations  of  wit  and  subtlety,  it  argues  in 
what  good  plight  and  constitution  the  body  is ;  so,  when  the  cheerful- 
ness of  the  people  is  so  sprightly  up  as  that  it  has  not  only  wherewith 
to  guard  well  its  own  freedom  and  safety,  but  to  spare,  and  to  bestow 
upon  the  solidest  and  sublimest  points  of  controversy  and  new  inven- 
tion, it  betokens  us  not  degenerated,  nor  drooping  to  a  fatal  decay, 
by  casting  off  the  old  and  wrinkled  skin  of  corruption,  to  outlive  these 
pangs,  and  wax  young  again,  entering  the  glorious  ways  of  truth  and 
prosperous  virtue,  destined  to  become  great  and  honorable  in  these 
latter  ages.  Methinks  I  see  in  my  mind  a  noble  and- puissant  nation 
rousing  herself  like  a  strong  man  after  sleep,  and  shaking  her  in- 
vincible locks;  tnethinks  I  see  her  as  an  eagle,  mewing  her  mighty 
youth,  and  kindling  her  undazzled  eyes  at  the  full  midday  beam;  pur- 
ging and  unsealing  her  long-abused  sight  at  the  fountain  itself  of 
heavenly  radiance;  while  the  whole  noise  of  timorous  and  flocking 
birds,  with  those  also  that  love  the  twilight,  flutter  about,  amazed  at 
what  she  means,  and,  in  their  envious  gabble,  would  prognosticate  a 
year  of  sects  and  schisius.         *         *         *         * 

Though  all  the  winds  of  doctrine  were  let  loose  to  play  upon  the 
earth,  so  Truth  be  in  the  field,  we  do  injuriously,  by  licensing  and 
prohibiting,  to  misdoubt  her  strength.  Let  her  and  falsehood  grap- 
ple ;  who  ever  knew  Truth  put  to  the  worst  in  a  free  and  open  en- 
counter? Her  confuting  is  the  best  and  surest  suppressing.  He  who 
hears  what  praj'ing  there  is  for  light  and  clear  knowledge  to  be  sent 
down  among  us,  would  think  of  other  matters  to  be  constituted  be- 
yond the  discipline  of  Geneva,  framed  and  fabricked  already  to  our 
hands.  Yet  when  the  new  life  which  we  beg  for  shines  in  upon  us, 
there  be  who  envy  and  oppose,  if  it  come  not  first  in  at  their  case- 
^  ments-  What  a  collusion  is  this,  when,  as  we  are  exhorted  by  the  wise 
man  to  use  diligence,  "  to  seek  for  wisdom  as  for  hidden  treasures," 
early  and  late,  that  another  order  shall  enjoin  us  to  know  nothing  but 
by  statute!  When  a  man  hath  been  laboring  the  hardest  labor  in  the 
deep  mines  of  knowledge,  hath  furnished  out  his  findings  in  all  their 
equipage,  drawn  forth  his  reasons,  as  it  were  a  battle  ranged,  scattered 
and  defeated  all  objections  in  his  way,  calls  out  his  adversary  into  the 
plain,  offers  him  the  advantage  of  wind  and  sun,  if  he  please,  only 
that  he  may  try  the  matter  by  dint  of  argument;  for  his  opponents 
then  to  skulk,  to  lay  ambushments,  to  keep  a  narrow  bridge  of  licens- 
ing where  the  challenger  should  pass,  though  it  be  valor  enough  in 
soldiership,  is  but  weakness  and  cowardice  in  the  wars  of  Truth. 
For  who  knows  not  that  Truth  is  strong,  next  to  the  Almighty.''  She 
needs  no  policies,  nor  stratagems,  nor  licensings,  to  make  her  victori- 
ous; those  are  the  shifts  and  the  defences  that  error  uses  against  hei 
Dower;  give  her  but  room,  and  do  not  bind  her  when  she  sleeps. 


180  ANDBEW  MARVELL.  Chap.  XL 

Andrew  Marvell.    i 630-1 678.    (Manual,  p.  205.) 

14:0,   The  Nymph  Complaining  fior  the  Death  of  her  Fawn, 

The  wanton  troopers  riding  by 
Have  shot  my  fawn,  and  it  will  die. 
Ungentle  men  !  they  cannot  thrive 
Who  killed  thee.     Thou  ne'er  didst  alive 
Them  any  harm ;  alas  !  nor  could 
Thy  death  to  them  do  any  good. 
I'm  sure  I  never  wished  them  ill ; 
Nor  do  I  for  all  this ;  nor  will : 
But,  if  my  simple  prayers  may  yet 
Prevail  with  heaven  to  forget 
Thy  murder,  I  will  join  my  tears, 
Rather  than  fail.     But,  O  my  fears  \ 
It  cannot  die  so.     Heaven's  king 
Keeps  register  of  everything. 
And  nothing  may  we  use  in  vain  : 
Even  beasts  must  be  with  justice  slain. 

*  *  *  *  '^  H^  in 

Inconstant  Sylvio,  when  yet 
I  had  not  found  him  counterfeit, 
One  morning  (I  remember  well), 
Tied  in  this  silver  chain  and  bell, 
Gave  it  to  me  :  nay,  and  I  know 
What  he  said  then  :  I'm  sure  I  do. 
Said  he,  "  Look  how  your  huntsman  here 
Hath  taught  a  fawn  to  hunt  his  deer." 
But  Sylvio  soon  had  me  beguiled. 
,  This  waxed  tame  while  he  grew  wild, 

And,  quite  regardless  of  my  smart, 
Left  me  his  fawn,  but  took  his  heart. 
Thenceforth  I  set  myself  to  play 
My  solitary  time  away 
With  this,  and  very  well  content 
Could  so  my  idle  life  have  spent; 
For  it  was  full  of  sport,  and  light 
Of  foot,  and  heart;  and  did  invite 
Me  to  its  game ;  it  seemed  to  bless 
Itself  in  me.     How  could  I  less 
Than  love  it?     O,  I  cannot  be 
Unkind  t'  a  beast  that  loveth  me. 
Had  it-lived  long,  I  do  not  know 
Whether  it  too  might  have  done  so 


A.  D.  1620-1678.  ANDREW  MARVELL,  181 

As  Sylvio  did ;  his  gifts  might  be 
Perhaps  as  false,  or  more,  than  he. 
But  I  am  sure,  for  aught  that  I 
Could  in  so  short  a  time  espy, 
Thy  love  was  far  more  better  than 
The  love  of  false  and  cruel  man. 


182    "  SAMUEL   BUTLER.  Chap.  XII. 


CHAPTER    XII. 

THE    AGE    OF    THE    RESTORATION. 


241.   Samuel  Butler.  1612-1680.    (Manual,  pp.  207-212.) 

From  "  Hudibras." 

Honor. 

Quoth  he,  "That  honor's  verj  squeamish, 

That  takes  a  basting  for  a  blemish  : 

For  what's  more  honorable  than  scars, 

Or  skin  to  tatters  rent  in  wars? 

Some  have  been  beaten  till  they  know 

What  wood  a  cudgel's  of  by  th'  blow ; 

Some  kicked,  until  they  can  feel  whether       .  , 

A  shoe  be  Spanish  or  neat's  leather; 

And  yet  have  met,  after  long  running, 

With  some  whom  they  have  taught  that  cunning, 

The  furthest  way  about,  t'  o'ercome, 

I'  th'  end  does  prove  the  nearest  home. 

By  laws  of  learned  duellists. 

They  that  are  bruised  with  wood,  or  fists. 

And  think  one  beating  may  for  once 

Suflice,  are  cowards  and  poltroons; 

But  if  they  dare  engage  t'  a  second. 

They're  stout  and  gallant  fellows  reckoned. 

Th'  old  Romans  freedom  did  bestow; 

Our  princes  worship  with  a  blow : 

King  Pyrrhus  cured  his  splenetic 

And  testy  courtiers  with  a  kick. 

The  Negus,  when  some  mighty  lord 

Or  potentate's  to  be  restored, 

And  pardoned  for  some  great  offence, 

With  which  he's  willing  to  dispense, 

First  has  him  laid  upon  his  belly, 

Then  beaten  back  and  side  t'  a  jelly ; 

That  done,  he  rises,  humbly  bows. 

And  gives  thanks  for  the  princely  blows; 

Departs  not  meanly  ]  roud.  and  boasting 


A.  D.  1612-V^O.  SAMUEL  BUTLER.  183 

Of  his  magnificent  rib-roasting. 

The  beaten  soldier  proves  most  manful, 

That,  like  his  sword,  endures  the  anvil, 

And  justly's  held  more  formidable. 

The  more  his  valor's  malleable: 

But  he  that  fears  a  bastinado, 

Will  run  aw^ay  from  his  own  shadow. 

Caligula's  Campaign  in  Britain 

So  th'  emperor  Caligula, 
That  triumphed  o'er  the  British  sea, 
Took  crabs  and  oysters  prisoners, 
And  lobsters,  'stead  of  cuirassiers  ; 
Engaged  his  legions  in  fierce  bustles, 
,  With  periwinkles,  prawns,  and  muscles, 

And  led  his  troops  with  furious  gallops, 
To  charge  whole  regiments  of  scallops; 
Not  like  their  ancient  way  of  war. 
To  wait  on  his  triumphal  car; 
But  when  he  went  to  dine  or  sup, 
More  bravely  ate  his  captives  up. 
And  left  all  war,  by  his  example. 
Reduced  to  vict'ling  of  a  camp  well. 

The  Procession  of  the  Skimmington 

And  now  the  cause  of  all  their  fear 

\ly  slow  degrees  approached  so  near. 

They  might  distinguish  different  noise 

Of  horns,  and  pans,  and  dogs,  and  boys. 

And  kettle-drums,  whose  sullen  dub 

Sounds  like  the  hooping  of  a  tub, 

But  when  the  sight  appeared  in  view, 

They  found  it  was  an  antique  show; 

A  triumph  that,  for  pomp  and  state, 

Did  proudest  Romans  emulate  : 

For  as  the  aldermen  of  Rome 

Their  foes  at  training  overcome, 

And  not  enlarging  territory, 

As  some,  mistaken,  write  in  story, 

Being  mounted  in  their  best  array, 

Upon  a  car,  and  who  but  they.'* 

And  followed  with  a  world  of  tall  lads. 

That  merry  ditties  trolled,  and  ballads. 

Did  ride  with  many  a  good-morrow. 

Crying,  Hey  for  our  town,  through  the  borough. 


184  JOHN  DRYDEN.  Chap  XII 


The  Opposition  in  the  Long  Parliament. 

Are  these  the  fruits  o'  th'  protestation, 

The  prototype  of  reformation, 

Which  all  the  saints,  and  some,  since  martyrs, 

Wore  in  their  hats  like  wedding  garters, 

When  'twas  resolved  by  their  house 

Six  members'  quarrel  to  espouse? 

Did  they  for  this  draw  down  the  rabble, 

With  zeal,  and  noises  formidable ; 

And  make  all  cries  about  the  town 

Join  throats  to  cry  the  bishops  down? 

Who  having  round  begirt  the  palace, 

(As  once  a  month  they  do  the  gallows,) 
As  members  gave  the  sign  about, 
Set  up  their  throats  with  hideous  shout. 
When  tinkers  bawled  aloud,  to  settle 

Church  discipline,  for  patching  kettle  : 
The  oyster  women  locked  their  fish  up, 
And  trudged  away  to  cry  No  Bishop ; 
The  mousetrap-men  laid  save-alls  by, 

And  'gainst  evil  counsellors  did  cry; 

Botchers  left  old  clothes  in  the  lurch, 

And  fell  to  turn  and  patch  the  church ; 

Some  cried  the  covenant,  instead 

Of  pudding-pies,  and  gingerbread; 

And  some  for  brooms,  old  boots,  and  shoes, 

Bawled  out  to  purge  the  common's-house  : 

Instead  of  kitchen-stuff,  some  cry 

A  gospel-preaching  ministry; 

And  some  for  old  suits,  coats,  or  cloak, 

No  surplices  nor  service-book. 

A  strange  harmonious  inclination 

Of  all  degrees  to  reformation. 


John  Dryden.     1631-1700.     (Manual,  pp.  212-221.) 
From  the  **  Annus  Mirabilis." 

14:2 •   London  after  the  Fire. 

Methinks  already  from  this  chymic  flame, 

I  see  a  city  of  more  precious  mould  : 
Rich  as  the  town  which  gives  the  Indies  name. 

With  silver  paved,  and  all  divine  with  gold. 


A.  D.  1631-1700.  JOHN  DRYDEN.  185 

Already  laboring  with  a  mighty  fate, 

She  shakes  the  rubbish  from  her  mounting  brow, 

And  seems  to  have  renewed  her  charter's  date, 
Which  Heaven  will  to  the  death  of  Time  allow. 

More  great  than  human  now,  and  more  august, 
Now  deified  she  from  her  fires  does  rise : 

Her  widening  streets  on  new  foundations  trust, 
And  opening  into  larger  parts  she  flies. 

Before,  she  like  some  shepherdess  did  show, 

Who  sat  to  bathe  her  by  a  river's  side ; 
Not  answering  to  her  fame,  but  rude  and  low, 

Nor  taught  the  beauteous  arts  of  modern  pride. 

Now  like  a  maiden  queen  she  will  behold, 
From  her  high  turrets,  hourly  suitors  come; 

The  East  with  incense,  and  the  West  with  gold, 
Will  stand  like  suppliants  to  receive  her  doom. 

The  silver  Thames,  her  own  domestic  flood, 
Shall  bear  her  vessel?  like  a  sweeping  train; 

And  often  wind,  as  ot  nis  mistress  proud. 
With  longing  eyes  to  meet  her  face  again. 


143,   On  Milton. 

Three  poets,  in  three  distant  ages  corn, 
Greece,  Italy,  and  England  did  adorn. 
The  first  in  loftiness  of  thought  surpassed; 
The  next  in  majesty;  in  both  the  last. 
The  force  of  nature  could  no  further  go ; 
To  make  a  third,  she  joined  the  other  two. 


From  "Absalom  and  Achitophel.** 

J.44:*   Character  of  Shaftesbury  (Achitophel). 

Of  these  the  false  Achitophel  was  first ; 
A  name  to  all  succeeding  ages  cursed  : 
For  close  designs  and  crooked  counsels  fit, 
Sagacious,  bold,  and  turbulent  of  wit: 
Restless,  unfixed  in  principles  and  place; 
In  power  unpleased,  impatient  of  disgrace, 
A  fiery  soul  which,  working  out  its  way, 
Fretted  the  pigmy  body  to  decay. 
And  o'er  informed  its  tenement  of  clay : 
A  daring  pilot  in  extremity; 


18G  JOHN  DRYDEN.  Chap.  XU 

Pleased  with  the  danger,  when  the  waves  went  high 
He  sought  the  storms ;  but,  for  a  calm  unfit, 
Would  steer  too  nigh  the  sands  to  show  his  wit. 
Great  wits  are  sure  to  madness  near  allied, 
And  thin  partitions  do  their  bounds  divide  : 
Else,  why  should  he,  with  wealth  and  honors  blest, 
Refuse  his  age  the  needful  hours  of  rest? 
Punish  a  body  which  he  could  not  please; 
Bankrupt  of  life,  yet  prodigal  of  ease? 

41  :(:  *  :|c  *  *  * 

In  friendship  false,  implacable  in  hate, 

Resolved  to  ruin  or  to  rule  the  state. 

To  compass  this  the  triple  bond  he  broke, 

The  pillars  of  the  public  safety  shook. 

And  fitted  Israel  with  a  foreign  yoke; 

Then,  seized  with  fear,  yet  still  affecting  fame, 

Usurped  a  patriot's  all-atoning  name ; 

So  easy  still  it  proves,  in  factious  times. 

With  public  zeal  to  cancel  private  crimes. 

How  safe  is  treason,  and  how  sacred  ill, 

Where  none  can  sin  against  the  people's  will ! 

Where  crowds  can  wink,  and  no  ofi:ence  be  known, 

Since  in  another's  guilt  they  find  their  own! 

Yet  fame  deserved  no  enemy  can  grudge; 

The  statesman  we  abhor,  but  praise  the  judge. 

In  Israel's  courts  ne'er  sat  an  Abethdin 

With  more  discerning  ej^es,  or  hands  more  clean, 

Unbribed,  unsought,  the  wretched  to  redress; 

Swift  of  despatch  and  easy  of  access. 

O,  had  he  been  content  to  serve  the  crown 

With  virtue  only  proper  to  the  gown ; 

Or  had  the  rankness  of  the  soil  been  freed 

From  cockle,  that  oppressed  the  noble  seed; 

David  for  him  his  tuneful  harp  had  strung. 

But  wild  Ambition  loves  to  slide,  not  sland; 
And  Fortune's  ice  prefers  to  Virtue's  land. 
Achitophel,  grown  weary  to  possess 
A  lawful  fame,  a  lasting  happiness. 
Disdained  the  golden  fruit  to  gather  free, 
And  lent  the  crowd  his  arm  to  shake  the  tree. 
Now,  manifest  of  crimes  contrived  long  since, 
He  stood  at  bold  defiance  with  his  prince; 
Held  up  the  buckler  of  the  people's  cause 
Against  tie  crown,  and  skulked  behind  the  laws. 


A.  D.  1631-1700.  JOHN  DRYDEN.  187 


145.  Character  of  Zimri  (Villiers,  Duke  of  Buckingham). 

Some  of  their  chiefs  were  princess  of  the  land ; 

In  the  first  rank  of  these  did  Zimri  stand  : 

A  man  so  various,  that  he  seemed  to  be 

Not  one,  but  all  mankind's  epitome  : 

Stiff  in  opinions,  always  in  the  wrong; 

Was  everything  by  starts,  and  nothing  long; 

But,  in  the  course  of  one  revolving  moon. 

Was  chemist,  fiddler,  statesman,  and  buffoon. 

Blest  madman,  who  could  every  hour  employ 

With  something  new  to  wish,  or  to  enjoy ! 

Railing  and  praising  were  his  usual  themes, 

And  both,  to  shew  his  judgment,  in  extremes ; 

So  over  violent,  or  over  civil, 

That  every  man  with  him  was  God  or  Devil. 

In  squandering  wealth  was  his  peculiar  art; 

Nothing  went  unrewarded  but  desert. 

Beggared  by  fools,  whom  still  he  found  too  late ; 

He  had  his  jest,  and  they  had  his  estate. 

He  laughed  himself  from  court,  then  sought  reliei 

By  forming  parties,  but  could  ne'er  be  chief; 

For  spite  of  him  the  weight  of  business  fell 

On  Absalom,  and  wise  Achitophel : 

Thus,  wicked  but  in  will,  of  means  bereft, 

He  left  not  faction,  but  of  that  was  left. 


14:0,   Veni  Creator  Spiritus. 

Creator  Spirit,  by  whose  aid 
The  World's  foundations  first  were  laid, 
Come,  visit  every  pious  mind; 
Come,  pour  thy  joys  on  human  kind  ; 
From  sin  and  sorrow  set  us  free. 
And  make  thy  temples  worthy  Thee. 

O  Source  of  uncreated  light, 
The  Father's  promised  Paraclete  ! 
Thrice  holy  fount,  thrice  holy  fire. 
Our  hearts  with  heavenly  love  inspire; 
Come,  and  thy  sacred  unction  bring. 
To  sanctify  us  while  we  sing. 

Plenteous  of  grace,  descend  from  high, 

Rich  in  thy  sevenfold  energy ! 

Thou  strength  of  his  Almighty  hand. 

Whose  power  does  heaven  and  earth  command; 


188  JOHN  DHYDEN.  Chap.  XIL 

Proceeding  Spirit,  our  defence, 

Who  dost  the  gifts  of  tongues  dispense, 

And  crown'st  thy  gifts  with  eloquence. 

Refine  and  purge  our  earthy  parts ; 

But,  O,  inflame  and  fire  our  hearts ! 

Our  frailties  help,  our  vice  control, 

Submit  the  senses  to  the  soul ; 

And  when  rebellious  they  are  grown, 

Then  lay  thine  hand,  and  hold  them  down. 

Chase  from  our  minds  the  infernal  foe. 
And  peace,  the  fruit  of  love,  bestow; 
And,  lest  our  feet  should  step  astray. 
Protect  and  guide  us  in  the  way. 

Make  us  eternal  truths  receive, 
And  practise  all  that  we  believe  : 
Give  us  Thyself,  that  we  may  see 
The  Father,  and  the  Son,  by  Thee. 

Immortal  honor,  endless  fame, 
Attend  the  Almighty  Father's  name! 
The  Saviour  Son  be  glorified. 
Who  for  lost  man's  redemption  died ! 
And  equal  adoration  be. 
Eternal  Paraclete,  to  Thee  ! 


From  "  Religio  Laici." 

147,   Faith. 

What  then  remains,  but,  waiving  each  extreme, 

The  tide  of  ignorance  and  pride  to  stem  } 

Neither  so  rich  a  treasure  to  forego; 

Nor  proudly  seek  beyond  our  power  to  know : 

Faith  is  not  built  on  disquisitions  vain; 

The  things  we  must  believe  are  few  and  plain. 

But,  since  men  will  believe  more  than  they  need, 

And  every  man  will  make  himself  a  creed, 

In  doubtful  qviestions  'tis  the  safest  way 

To  learn  what  unsuspected  ancients  say : 

For  'tis  not  likely  we  should  higher  soar 

In  search  of  Heaven,  than  all  the  church  before : 

Nor  can  we  be  deceived  unless  we  see 

The  Scripture  and  the  Fathers  disagree. 

If  after  all  they  stand  suspected  still  — 

For  no  man's  faith  depends  upon  his  will  — 


A.  D.  1G31-1700.  JOHN  DRTDEN.  189 

'Tis  <;ome  relief,  that  points  not  clearly  known, 
Without  much  hazard  may  be  let  alone  : 
And,  after  hearing  what  our  church  can  say, 
If  still  our  reason  runs  another  way, 
That  private  reason  'tis  more  just  to  curb, 
Than  by  disputes  the  public  peace  disturb : 
For  points  obscure  are  of  small  use  to  learn, 
Rut  common  quiet  is  mankind's  concern. 


14:3,    Epistle  to  Congreve. 

0  that  your  brows  my  laurel  had  sustained ! 
Well  had  I  been  deposed,  if  you  had  reigned, 
The  father  had  descended  for  the  son ; 

For  only  you  are  lineal  to  the  throne. 

Thus,  when  the  state  one  Edward  did  depose, 

A  greater  Edward  in  his  room  arose : 

But  now,  not  I,  but  poetry  is  cursed ; 

For  Tom  the  second  reigns  like  Tom  the  first. 

But  let  them  not  mistake  my  patron's  part. 

Nor  call  his  charity  their  own  desert. 

Yet  this  I  prophesy  :  thou  shalt  be  seen 

(Though  with  some  short  parenthesis  between) 

High  on  the  throne  of  wit,  and,  seated  there. 

Not  mine,  that's  little,  but  thy  laurel  wear. 

Thy  first  attempt  an  early  promise  made, 

That  early  promise  this  has  more  than  paid. 

So  bold,  yet  so  judiciously  you  dare. 

That  your  least  praise  is  to  be  regular. 

Time,  place,  and  action,  may  with  pains  be  wrought, 

But  genius  must  be  born,  and  never  can  be  taught. 

This  is  your  portion  ;  this  your  native  store ; 

Heaven,  that  but  once  was  prodigal  before,  -  * 

To  Shakspeare  gave  as  much ;  she  could  not  give  him  more. 

Maintain  your  post :  that  all  the  fame  you  need ; 
For  'tis  impossible  you  should  proceed. 
Already  I  am  worn  with  cares  and  age. 
And  just  abandoning  th'  ungrateful  stage  : 
Unprofitably  kept  at  Heaven's  expense, 

1  live  a  rent-charge  on  his  providence ; 

But  you,  whom  every  Muse  and  Grace  adorn, 
Whom  I  foresee  to  better  fortune  born. 
Be  kind  to  my  remains ;  and,  O,  defend. 
Against  your  judgment,  your  departed  friend  ! 
Let  not  th'  insulting  foe  my  fame  pursue,  — 
But  shade  those  laurels  which  descend  to  you : 
And  take  for  tribute  what  these  lines  express  : 
You  merit  more ;  nor  could  my  love  do  less. 


190  JOHN  DRY  DEN.  Chap.  XII 

From  '*  The  Cock  and  the  Fox." 
140,   Dreams. 

Dreams  are  but  interludes  which  Fancy  makes; 
When  monarch  Reason  sleeps,  this  mimic  walccs: 
Compounds  a  medley  of  disjointed  things, 
A  mob  of  cobblers,  and  a  court  of  kings  : 
Light  fumes  are  merry,  grosser  fumes  are  sad  : 
Both  are  the  reasonable  soul  run  mad; 
And  many  monstrous  forms  in  sleep  we  see, 
That  neither  were,  nor  are,  nor  ne'er  can  be. 
Sometimes  forgotten  things  long  cast  behind 
Rush  forward  in  the  brain,  and  come  to  mind. 
The  nurse's  legends  are  for  truths  received, 
And  the  man  dreams  but  what  the  boy  believed. 
Sometimes  we  but  rehearse  a  former  play, 
The  night  restores  our  actions  done  by  day; 
As  hounds  in  sleep  will  open  for  their  prey. 
In  short,  the  farce  of  dream.s  is  of  a  piece. 
Chimeras  all;  and  more  absurd,  or  less. 


ISO,   Alexander's  Feast. 

An  Ode  in  Honor  of  St.  Cecilia's  Day. 

*Twas  at  the  royal  feast  for  Persia  won 
By  Philip's  warlike  son; 

Aloft  in  awful  state 

The  godlike  hero  sate 
On  his  imperial  throne : 

His  valiant  peers  were  placed  around ; 
Their  brows  with  roses  and  with  myrtles  bound 

(So  should  desert  in  arms  be  crowned)  : 
The  lovely  Thais,  by  his  side, 
Sate,  like  a  blooming  Eastern  bride. 
In  flower  of  youth  and  beauty's  pride. 

Happy,  happy,  happy  pair! 

None  but  the  brave. 

None  but  the  brave. 

None  but  the  brave  deserves  tie  fair. 

Timotheus,  placed  on  high 

Amid  the  tuneful  quire. 

With  flying  fingers  touched  the  lyre: 
The  trembling  notes  ascend  the  sky, 

And  heavenly  joys  inspire. 
The  song  began  —  from  Jove, 
Who  left  his  blissful  seats  above 


A.  D.  1631-1700.  JOUN  DRYDEN.  191 

(Such  is  the  power  of  mighty  love). 
A  dragon's  fiery  form  belied  the  god, 
Sublime  on  radiant  spires  he  rode. 
**♦♦*♦♦ 

The  listening  crowd  admire  the  lofty  sound, 

A  present  deity  !  they  shout  around  : 

A  present  deity  !  the  vaulted  roofs  rebound  : 

With  ravished  ears 

The  monarch  hears, 

Assumes  the  god. 

Affects  to  nod, 
And  seems  to  shake  the  spheres. 

The  praise  of  Bacchus  then,  the  sweet  musician  sung: 
Of  Bacchus  ever  fair  and  ever  young : 
The  jolly  god  in  triumph  comes ; 
Sound  the  trumpets;  beat  the  drums; 
Flushed  with  a  purple  grace, 
He  shows  his  honest  face;  # 

Now  give  the  hautboys  breath  :  he  comes!  he  comes  I 
Bacchus,  ever  fair  and  young. 

Drinking  joys  did  first  ordain; 
Bacchus'  blessings  are  a  treasure, 
Drinking  is  the  soldier's  pleasure: 
Rich  the  treasure, 
Sweet  the  pleasure ; 
Sweet  is  pleasure  after  pain. 

Soothed  with  the  sound,  the  king  grew  vain ; 
Fought  all  his  battles  o'er  again ; 
And  thrice  he  routed  all  his  foes ;  and  thrice  he  slew  the  slain. 
The  master  saw  the  madness  rise; 
His  glowing  cheeks,  his  ardent  eyes; 
And,  while  he  Heaven  and  Earth  defied, 
Changed  his  hand,  and  checked  his  pride. 

He  chose  a  mournful  Muse, 

Soft  pity  to  infuse  : 
He  sung  Darius  great  and  good, 

By  too  severe  a  fate. 
Fallen,  fallen,  fallen,  fallen,  „ 

Fallen  from  his  high  estate, 

And  welt' ring  in  his  blood  ; 
Deserted,  at  his  utmost  need, 
By  those  his  former  bounty  fed  : 
On  the  bare  earth  exposed  he  lies, 
With  not  a  friend  to  close  his  eyes. 
With  downcast  looks  the  jojless  victor  s^ate. 


192      -  JOHN  DRYDEN,  Chap.  XII 

Revolving  in  his  altered  soul 

The  various  turns  of  Chance  below; 
And,  now  and  then,  a  sigh  he  stole; 

And  tears  began  to  flow. 

The  mighty  master  smiled,  to  see 
That  love  was  in  the  next  degree  : 
'Twas  but  a  kindred  sound  to  move, 
For  pity  melts  the  mind  to  love. 
Softly  sweet,  in  Lydian  measures, 
Soon  he  soothed  his  soul  to  pleasures. 
War,  he  sung,  is  toil  and  trouble ; 
Honor,  but  an  empty  bubble ; 

Never  ending,  still  beginning, 
Fighting  still,  and  still  destroying; 

If  the  world  be  worth  thy  winning, 
Think,  O,  think  it  worth  enjoying: 
Lovely  Thais  sits  beside  thee, 
Take  the  good  the  gods  provide  thee ! 
The  many  rend  the  skies  with  loud  applause ; 
So  Love  was  crowned,  but  Music  won  the  cause. 
The  prince,  unable  to  conceal  his  pain, 
Gazed  on  the  fair 
Who  caused  his  care. 
And  sighed  and  looked,  sighed  and  looked, 
Sighed  and  looked,  and  sighed  again  : 
At  length,  with  love  and  wine  at  once  oppressed, 
The  vanquished  victor  sunk  upon  her  breast. 

Now  strike  the  golden  lyre  again  : 
A  louder  yet,  and  yet  a  louder  strain. 
Break  his  bands  of  sleep  asunder. 
And  rouse  him,  like  a  rattling  peal  of  thunder. 
Hark,  hark,  the  horrid  sound 
Has  raised  up  his  head ! 
As  awaked  from  the  dead. 
And  amazed,  he  stares  around. 
Revenge  !  revenge !  Timotheus  cries, 
See  the  Furies  arise: 
See  the  snakes  that  they  rear, 
How  they  hiss  in  their  hair, 
And  the  sparkles  that  flash  from  their  eyes. 
Behold  a  ghastly  band. 
Each  a  torch  in  his  hand ! 
Those  are  Grecian  ghosts,  that  in  battle  were  slain, 
And  unburied  remaiji 
Inglorious  on  the  plain  : 


A.  D.  1631-1700.  JOHN  DRYDEN,  193 

Give  the  vengeance  due 

To  the  valiant  crew! 
Behold  how  they  toss  their  torches  on  high, 

How  thej  point  to  the  Persian  abodes, 
And  glittering  temples  of  their  hostile  gods ! 
The  princes  applaud,  with  a  furious  joy; 
And  the  king  seized  a  flambeau  with  zeal  to  destroy  ; 

Thais  led  the  way, 

To  light  him  to  his  prey, 
And,  like  another  Helen,  fired  another  Troy. 

Thus,  long  ago, 
Ere  heaving  bellows  learned  to  blow 

While  organs  yet  were  mute  ; 
Timotheus,  to  his  breathing  flute, 
And  sounding  lyre, 
Could  swell  the  soul  to  rage,  or  kindle  soft  desire 
At  last  divine  Cecilia  came, 
Inventress  of  the  vocal  frame ; 
The  sweet  enthusiast,  from  her  sacred  store. 
Enlarged  the  former  narrow  bounds, 
And  added  length  to  solemn  sounds, 
With  Nature's  mother-wit,  and  arts  unknown  before. 
Let  old  Timotheus  yield  the  prize, 

Or  both  divide  the  crown ; 
He  raised  a  mortal  to  the  skies, 
She  drew  an  angel  down. 


Drydeii's  Prose. 

15 !•   Chaucer  and  Cowley. 

In  the  first  place,  as  he  is  the  father  of  English  poetry,  so  I  hold 
him  in  the  same  degree  of  veneration  as  the  Grecians  held  Homer,  or 
the  Romans  Virgil.  He  is  a  perpetual  fountain  of  good  sense,  learned 
in  all  sciences,  and  therefore  speaks  properly  on  all  subjects.  As  he 
knew  what  to  say,  so  he  knows  also  when  to  leave  oiF;  a  continence 
which  is  practised  by  few  writers,  and  scarcely  by  any  of  the  ancients, 
excepting  Virgil  and  Horace.  One  of  our  late  great  poets  *  is  sunk  in 
his  reputation,  because  he  could  never  forgive  any  conceit  which  came 
in  his  waj';  but  swept,  like  a  drag-net,  great  and  small.  There  was 
plenty  enough,  but  the  dishes  were  ill  sorted ;  whole  pyramids  of 
sweetmeats  for  boys  and  women,  but  little  of  solid  meat  for  men.  All 
this  proceeded  not  from  any  want  of  knowledge,  but  of  judgment. 
Neither  did  he  want  that  in  discerning  the  beauties  and  faults  of  other 

I  Cowley. 

«3 


VJ4:  JOHN  DEYDEN.  Chap.  XII. 

poets,  but  only  indulged  himself  in  the  luxury  of -writing;  and  per- 
haps knew  it  was  a  fault,  but  hoped  the  reader  would  not  find  it.  For 
this  reason,  though  he  must  always  be  thought  a  great  poet,  he  is  no 
longer  esteemed  a  good  writer;  and  for  ten  impressions,  which  his 
works  have  had  in  so  many  successive  years,  yet  at  present  a  hundred 
books  are  scarcely  purchased  once  a  twelve-month ;  for,  as  my  last 
Lord  Rochester  said,  though  somewhat  profanely,  Not  being  of  God, 
he  could  not  stand. 

Chaucer  followed  nature  everywhere ;  but  was  never  so  bold  to  go 
beyond  her.  It  is  true,  I  cannot  go  so  far  as  he  who  published  the 
last  edition  of  him ;  for  he  would  make  us  believe  the  fault  is  in  our 
ears,  and  that  there  were  really  ten  syllables  in  a  verse,  where  we  find 
but  nine.  But  this  opinion  is  not  worth  confuting;  it  is  so  gross  and 
obvious  an  error,  that  common  sense  (which  is  a  rule  in  everything 
but  matters  of  faith  and  revelation)  must  convince  the  reader,  that 
equality  of  numbers  in  every  verse  which  we  call  heroic,  was  either 
not  known,  or  not  always  practised  in  Chaucer's  age.  It  were  an  easy 
matter  to  produce  soine  thousands  of  his  verses,  which  are  lame  for 
want  of  half  a  foot,  and  sometimes  a  whole  one,  and  which  no  pro- 
nunciation can  make  otherwise.  We  can  only  say,  that  he  lived  in 
the  infancy  of  our  poetry,  and  that  nothing  is  brought  to  perfection 
at  the  first.  We  must  be  children,  before  we  grow  men.  There  was 
an  Ennius,  and  in  process  of  time  a  Lucilius  and  a  Lucretius,  before 
Virgil  and  Horace.  Even  after  Chaucer  there  was  a  Spenser,  a  Har- 
rington, a  Fairfax,  before  Waller  and  Denham  were  in  being;  and 
our  numbers  were  in  their  nonage  till  these  last  appeared. 


1S2»    Shakspeare  and  Ben  Jonson. 

To  begin,  then,  with  Shakspeare.  He  was  the  man,  who,  of  all 
modern,  and  perhaps  ancient  poets,  had  the  largest  and  most  com- 
prehensive soul.  All  the  images  of  nature  were  still  present  to  him, 
and  he  drew  them  not  laboriously,  but  luckily :  when  he  describes 
anything,  you  more  than  see  it  —  you  feel  it  too.  Those  who  accuse 
him:  to  have  wanted  learning,  give  him  the  greater  commendation  : 
he  was  naturally  learned ;  he  needed  not  the  spectacles  of  books  to 
read  nature;  he  looked  inwards,  and  found  her  there.  I  cannot  say 
he  is  everyAvhere  alike;  were  he  so,  I  should  do  him  injury  to  com- 
pare him  with  the  greatest  of  mankind.  He  is  many  times  flat, 
insipid;  his  comic  wit  degenerating  into  clenches,'  his  serious  swell- 
ing into  bombast.  But  he  is  always  great  when  some  great  occasion 
is  presented  to  him.         *         *         *         * 

The  consideration  of  this  made  Mr.  Hales  of  Eton  say,  that  there 
was  no  subject  of  which  any  poet  ever  writ,  but  he  would  produce  it 
much  better  done  in  Shakspeare;  and  however  others  are  now  gener- 

1  At  old  word  for  pwu. 


A.  D.  ir.21-1684.  ALGERNON  SIDNEY,  195 

ally  preferred  before  him,  yet  the  age  wherein  he  lived,  wlu'ch  had 
contemporaries  with  him,  Fletcher  and  Jonson,  never  equalled  them 
to  him  in  their  esteem;  and  in  the  last  king's  court,  when  Ben's  rep- 
utation was  at  highest,  Sir  John  Suckling,  and  with  him  the  greater 
part  of  the  courtiers,  set  our  Shakspeare  far  above  him. 

As  for  Jonson,  to  whose  character  I  am  now  arrived,  if  .ve  look 
upon  him  while  he  was  himself  (for  his  last  plays  wei-e  but  nis  do- 
tages), I  think  him  the  most  learned  and  judicious  writer  which  any 
theatre  ever  had.  He  was  a  most  severe  judge  oi  himself,  as  well  as 
others.  One  cannot  say  he  wanted  wit,  but  rather  that  he  was  frugal 
of  it.  In  his  works  you  find  little  to  retrench  or  alter.  Wit,  and  lan- 
guage, and  humor,  also  in  some  measure,  we  had  before  him;  but 
something  of  art  was  wanting  to  the  drama,  till  he  came.  He  man- 
aged his  strength  to  more  advantage  than  any  who  preceded  him. 
You  seldom  find  him  making  love  in  anj^  of  his  scenes,  or  endeavor- 
ing to  move  the  passions;  his  genius  was  too  sullen  and  saturnine  to 
do  it  gracefully,  especiall}'  when  he  knew  he  came  after  those  who 
had  performed  both  to  such  a  height.  Humor  was  his  proper  sphere ; 
and  in  that  he  delighted  most  to  represent  mechanic  people.  He  was 
deeply  conversant  in  the  ancients,  both  Greek  and  Latin,  and  he  bor- 
rowed boldly  from  them ;  there  is  scarce  a  poet  or  historian  among 
the  Roman  authors  of  those  times,  whom  he  has  not  translated  in 
Sejanus  and  Catiline.  But  he  has  done  his  robberies  so  openly,  that 
one  may  see  he  fears  not  to  be  taxed  by  any  law.  He  invades  authors 
like  a  monarch;  and  what  would  be  theft  in  other  poets,  is  only  vic- 
tory in  hiin.  With  the  spoils  of  these  writers  he  so  represents  old 
Rome  to  us,  in  his  rites,  ceremonies,  and  customs,  that  if  one  of  their 
poets  had  written  either  of  his  tragedies,  we  had  seen  less  of  it  than 
in  him.  If  there  was  any  fault  in  his  language,  'twas  that  he  weaved 
it  too  closely  and  laboriousl}',  in  his  comedies  especially :  perhaps, 
too,  he  did  a  little  too  much  Romanize  our  tongue,  leaving  the  words 
which  he  translated  almost  as  much  Latin  as  he  found  them ;  wherein, 
though  he  learnedly  followed  their  language,  he  did  not  enough  com- 
ply with  the  idiom  of  ours.  If  I  would  compare  him  with  Shak- 
speare, I  must  acknowledge  him  the  more  correct  poet,  but  Shakspeare 
the  greater  wit.  Shakspeare  was  the  Homer,  or  father  of  our  dra- 
matic poets  :  Jonson  was  the  Virgil,  the  pattern  of  elaborate  writing : 
I  admire  him,  but  I  love  Shakspeare. 


Algernon  Sidney.     1621-16S4.     (Manual,  p.  206.) 

From  the  "Discourses  on  Government." 

JLSSm  Influence  of  Government  on  the  Character  of  a  People. 

Men  are  valiant  and  industrious  when  they  fight  for  themselves  and 
their  country.  They  prove  excellent  in  all  the  arts  of  war  and  peace, 
»vhen   they   are   bred  up   in  virtuous  exerciser,    and   taught  by  their 


19G  ALGERNON  SIDNEY.  Chap.  XIL 

fathers  and  masters  to  rejoice  in  the  honors  gained  bj  them.  They 
love  their  countrj'  when  the  good  of  everj  particular  man  is  compre- 
hended in  the  public  prosperity,  and  the  success  of  their  achieve- 
ments is  improved  to  the  general  advantage.  Thej  undertake  haz- 
ards and  labor  for  the  government,  when  it  is  justly  administered ; 
when  innocence  is  safe,  and  virtue  honored;  when  no  man  is  distin- 
guished from  the  vulgar,  but  such  as  have  distinguished  themselves 
by  the  bravery  of  their  actions;  when  no  honor  is  thought  too  great 
for  those  who  do  it  eminently,  unless  it  be  such  as  cannot  be  commu- 
nicated to  others  of  equal  merit.  They  do  not  spare  their  persons, 
purses,  or  friends,  when  the  public  powers  are  employed  for  the  pub- 
lic benefit,  and  imprint  the  like  affections  in  their  children  from  their 
infancy.  The  discipline  of  obedience,  in  which  the  Romans  were 
bred,  taught  them  to  command :  and  few  were  admitted  to  the  magis- 
tracies of  inferior  rank,  till  they  had  given  such  proofs  of  their  virtue 
as  might  deserve  the  supreme.  Cincinnatus,  Camillus,  Papirius,  Fa- 
bius  Maximus,  were  not  made  dictators  that  thej'  might  learn  the 
duties  of  the  office,  but  because  they  were  judged  to  be  of  such  wis- 
dom, valor,  integrity,  and  experience,  that  they  might  be  safely  trusted 
with  the  highest  powers;  and,  whilst  the  law  reigned,  not  one  was 
advanced  to  that  honor  who  did  not  fully  answer  what  was  expected 
from  him.  By  these  means  the  city  was  so  replenished  with  men  fit 
for  the  greatest  employments,  that  even  in  its  infancy,  when  three 
hundred  and  six  of  the  Fabii  were  killed  in  one  day,  the  city  did 
lament  the  loss,  but  was  not  so  weakened  to  give  any  advantage  to 
their  enemies  :  and  when  every  one  of  those  who  had  been  eminent 
before  the  second  Punic  war,  Fabius  Maximus  only  excepted,  had 
perished  in  it,  others  arose  in  their  places,  who  surpassed  them  in 
number,  and  were  equal  to  them  in  virtue.  The  city  was  a  perpetual 
spring  of  such  men,  as  long  as  liberty  lasted;  but  that  was  no  sooner 
overthrown,  than  virtue  was  torn  up  by  the  roots  :  the  people  became 
base  and  sordid ;  the  small  remains  of  the  nobility  slothful  and  eftem- 
inate ;  and,  their  Italian  associates  becoming  like  to  them,  the  empire, 
whilst  it  stood,  was  only  sustained  by  the  strength  of  foreigners.  The 
Grecian  virtue  had  the  same  fate,  and  expired  with  liberty.  *  *  * 
It  is  absurd  to  impute  this  to  the  change  of  times ;  for  time  changes 
nothing;  arud  nothing  was  changed  in  those  times,  but  the  govern- 
ment, and  that  changed  all  things.  This  is  not  accidental,  but  ac- 
cording to  the  rules  given  to  nature  by  God,  imposing  upon  all  things 
a  necessity  of  perpetually  following  their  causes.  Fruits  are  always 
of  the  same  nature  with  the  seeds  and  roots  from  which  they  come, 
and  trees  are  known  by  the  fruits  they  bear.  As  a  man  begets  a  man, 
and  a  beast  a  beast,  that  society  of  men  which  constitutes  a  govern- 
ment upon  the  foundation  of  justice,  virtue,  and  the  common  good, 
will  always  have  men  to  promote  those  ends,  and  that  which  intends 
the  advancement  of  one  man's  desires  and  vanity  will  abound  in  those 
that  will  foment  them. 


A.  D.  1628-1705.        JOHN  RAY. —JOHN  BUN Y AN.  197. 

JoHxN  Ray.     1 628- 1 705.     (Manual,  p.  261.) 
From  "The  Wisdom  of  God  in  Creation." 

154:,    Civilization   designed   by   the   Creator. 

I  peiouade  myself  that  the  bountiful  and  gracious  Author  of  man's 
being  and  faculties,  and  all  things  else,  delights  in  the  beauty  of  his 
creation,  and  is  well  pleased  with  the  industry  of  man  in  adorning 
the  earth  with  beautiful  cities  and  castles,  with  pleasant  villages  and 
country  houses;  with  regular  gardens  and  orchards,  and  plantations 
of  all  sorts  of  shrubs,  and  herbs,  and  fruits  for  meat,  medicine,  or 
moderate  delight;  with  shady  woods  and  groves,  and  walks  set  with 
»*ows  of  elegant  trees ;  with  pastures  clothed  with  flocks,  and  valleys 
covered  over  with  corn,  and  meadows  burdened  with  grass,  and  what- 
ever else  differenceth  a  civil  and  well-cultivated  region  from  a  barren 
and  desolate  wilderness. 

If  a  country  thus  planted  and  adorned,  thus  polished  and  civilized, 
thus  improved  to  the  height  by  all  manner  of  culture  for  the  svipport 
and  sustenance,  and  convenient  entertainment  of  innuinerable  multi- 
tudes of  people,  be  not  to  be  preferred  before  a  barbarous  and  inhos- 
pitable Scythia,  without  houses,  without  plantations,  without  corn- 
fields or  vineyards,  where  the  roving  hordes  of  the  savage  and  truculent 
inhabitants  transfer  themselves  from  place  to  place  in  wagons,  as  they 
can  find  pasture  and  forage  for  their  cattle,  and  live  upon  milk,  and 
flesh  roasted  in  the  sun  at  the  pommels  of  their  saddles ;  or  a  rude 
and  unpolished  America,  peopled  with  slothful  and  naked  Indians, 
instead  of  well  built  houses,  living  in  pitiful  huts  and  cabins,  made 
of  poles  set  endwise;  then  surely  the  brute  beast's  condition  and  man- 
ner of  living,  to  which  what  we  have  mentioned  doth  nearly  approach, 
is  to  be  esteemed  better  than  man's,  and  wit  and  reason  was  in  vain 
bestowed  on  him. 


John  Bunyan.     162S-16SS.     (Manual,  pp.  221-225.) 

From  "  The  Pilgrim's  Progress." 

15 o»   The  Valley  of  Humiliation. 

Now  they  began  to  go  down  the  hill  into  the  valley  of  humiliation, 
[t  was  a  steep  hill,  and  the  way  was  slippery;  but  they  were  very  care- 
ful ;  so  they  got  down  pretty  well.  Wheh  they  were  down  in  the  val- 
ley. Piety  said  to  Christiana,  this  is  the  place  where  Christian,  your 
husband,  met  with  that  foul  fiend  Apollyon,  and  where  they  had  that 
dreadful  fight  that  they  had.  I  know  you  cannot  but  have  heard 
thereof.  But  be  of  good  courage ;  as  long  as  you  have  here  Mr. 
Greatheart  to  be  jour  guide  and  conductor,  we  hope  you  will  fare  the 
better.  So  when  these  t.\'o  had  committed  the  pilgrims  unto  the  con- 
duct of  their  guide,  he  went  forward,  and  they  went  after. 


198  JOHN  BUNYAN.  Chap.  XIL 

Then  said  Mr.  Greatheart,  we  need  not  be  so  afraid  of  this  valley, 
for  here  is  nothing  to  hurt  us,  unless  we  procure  it  to  ourselves.  'Tis 
true  Christian  did  here  meet  with  Apolljon,  with  whom  he  also  had  a 
sore  combat;  but  that  fray  was  the  fruit  of  those  slips  that  he  got  in 
his  going  down  the  hill,  for  they  that  get  slips  there  must  look  foi 
combats  here.  And  hence  it  is  that  this  valley  has  got  so  hard  a 
r&.Tie;  for  the  common  people,  when  they  hear  that  some  frightful 
t'.iing  has  befallen  such  a  one  in  such  a  place,  are  of  opinion  that  that 
place  is  haunted  with  some  foul  fiend  or  evil  spirit,  when,  alas!  it  is 
for  the  fruit  of  their  own  doing  that  such  things  do  befall  them  there. 

This  valley  of  humiliation  is  of  itself  as  fruitful  a  place  as  any  the 
crow  flies  over;  and  I  am  persuaded,  if  we  could  hit  upon  it,  we  might 
find  somewhere  hereabouts  something  that  might  give  us  an  account 
why  Christian  was  so  hardly  beset  in  this  place. 

Then  said  James  to  his  mother,  Lo !  yonder  stands  a  pillar,  and  it 
looks  as  if  something  was  written  thereon :  let  us  go  and  see  what  it 
is.  So  they  went,  and  found  there  written,  "Let  Christian's  slip,  be- 
fore he  came  hither,  and  the  battles  that  he  met  with  in  this  place,  be 
a  warning  to  those  that  come  after."  Lo !  said  their  guide,  did  not  I 
tell  you  that  there  was  something  hereabouts  that  would  give  in- 
timation of  the  reason  why  Christian  was  so  hard  beset  in  this  place  .f* 
Then  turning  himself  to  Christiana,  he  said,  no  disparagement  to 
Christian  more  than  to  many  others  whose  hap  and  lot  it  was ;  for  it 
is  easier  going  up  than  down  this  hill,  and  that  can  be  said  but  of  few 
hills  in  all  these  parts  of  the  world.  But  we  will  leave  the  good  man; 
he  is  at  rest;  he  also  had  a  brave  victory  over  his  enemy;  let  Him 
grant,  that  dwelleth  above,  that  we  fare  no  worse,  when  wq  come  to 
be  tried,  than  he ! 

But  we  will  come  again  to  this  valley  of  humiliation.  It  is  the  best 
and  most  fruitful  piece  of  ground  in  all  these  parts.  It  is  fat  ground, 
and,  as  you  see,  consisteth  much  in  meadows;  and  if  a  man  was  to 
come  here  in  suinmer-time,  as  we  do  now,  if  he  knew  not  anything  be- 
fore thereof,  and  if  he  also  delighted  himself  in  the  sight  of  his  eyes, 
he  might  see  that  which  would  be  delightful  to  him.  Behold  how 
green  this  valley  is !  also  how  beautiful  with  lilies !  I  have  known 
many  laboring  men  that  have  got  good  estates  in  this  valley  of  humil- 
iation. "For  God  resisteth  the  proud,  but  giveth  grace  to  the  hum- 
ble;" for  indeed  it  is  a  very  fruitful  soil,  and  doth  bring  forth  by 
handfuls.  Some  also  have  wished  that  the  next  way  to  their  Father's 
house  were  here,  that  they  might  be  troubled  no  more  with  either 
hills  or  mountains  to  go  over;  but  the  way  is  the  waj^,  and  there's  an 
end. 

Now,  as  they  were  going  along  and  talking,  they  espied  a  boy  feed- 
ing his  father's  sheep.  The  boy  was  in  very  mean  clothes,  but  of  a 
fresh  and  well-favored  countenance,  and  as  he  sat  by  himself  he  sung. 
"  Hark,"  said  Mr.  Greatheart,  "to  what  the  shepherd's  boy  saith;" 
60  they  hearkened,  and  he  said,  — 


A.  D.  1628-1688.  JOHN  BUNYAN.  199 

He  that  u  down  needs  fear  no  fall ; 

He  that  is  low  no  pride; 
He  that  is  humble  ever  shall 

Have  God  to  be  his  guide. 
I  am  content  with  what  I  have, 

Little  be  it  or  much; 
And,  Lord!  contentment  still  I  crave, 

Because  thou  savest  such. 
Fulness  to  such  a  burden  is, 

That  go  on  pilgrimage  : 
Here  little,  and  hereafter  bliss, 

Is  best  from  age  to  age. 

Then  said  their  guide,  do  jou  hear  him?  I  will  dare  to  say  this  bo^ 
lives  a  merrier  life,  and  wears  more  of  that  herb  called  heart's-ease  in 
his  bosom  than  he  that  is  clad  in  silk  and  velvet!  but  we  will  proceed 
in  our  discourse. 

The  Golden  City. 

Now  I  saw  in  mj  dream  that  bv  this  time  the  pilgrims  were  got 
over  the  Enchanted  Ground,  and  entering  into  the  country  of  Beulah, 
whose  air  was  very  sweet  and  pleasant,  the  way  lying  directly  through 
it,  they  solaced  them  there  for  a  season.  Yea,  here  they  heard  con- 
tinually the  singing  of  birds,  and  saw  every  day  the  flowers  appear  in 
the  earth,  and  heard  the  voice  of  the  turtle  in  the  land.  In  this  coun- 
try the  sun  shineth  night  and  day ;  wherefore  it  was  beyond  the  Valley 
of  the  Shadow  of  Death,  and  also  out  of  reach  of  the  Giant  Despair; 
neither  could  they  from  this  place  so  much  as  see  Doubting  Castle. 
Here  they  were  within  sight  of  the  city  they  were  going  to,  also  here 
met  them  some  of  the  inhabitants  thereof,  for  in  this  land  the  shining 
ones  commonly  walked,  because  it  was  upon  the  borders  of  Heaven. 
In  this  land,  also,  the  contract  between  the  bride  and  bridegroom  was 
renewed;  yea,  here,  "as  the  bridegroom  rejoiceth  over  the  bride,  so 
did  their  God  rejoice  over  them."  Here  they  had  no  want  of  corn  and 
wine ;  for  in  this  place  they  met  abundance  of  what  they  had  sought 
for  in  all  their  pilgrimage.  Here  they  heard  voices  from  out  of  the 
city  —  loud  voices  —  saying,  "  Say  ye  to  the  daughter  of  Zion,  Behold 
thy  salvation  cometh.  Behold,  his  reward  is  with  him!"  Here  all 
the  inhabitants  of  the  country  called  them  "  the  holy  people,  the  re- 
deemed of  the  Lord,  sought  out,"  &c. 

Now,  as  they  walked  in  this  land,  they  had  more  rejoicing  than  in 
parts  more  remote  from  the  kingdom  to  which  they  were  bound ;  and 
drawing  nearer  to  the  city  yet,  they  had  a  more  perfect  view  thereof ' 
it  was  built  of  pearls  and  precious  stones  ;  also  the  streets  thereof  were 
paved  with  gold ;  so  that,  by  reason  of  the  natural  glory  of  the  city, 
and  the  reflections  of  the  sunbeams  upon  it.  Christian  with  desire  fell 
sick;   Hopeful  also  had  a  fit  or  two  of  the  same  disease:  wherefore 


200  JOHN  BUN Y AN.  Chap.  XII 

here  they  lay  by  it  for  a  little  while,  crying  out,  because  of  their  pangs, 
"If  you  see  my  beloved,  tell  him  that  I  am  sick  of  love."       *       *        * 

So  I  saw^  that,  when  they  awoke,  they  addressed  themselves  to  go  up 
to  the  great  city.  But,  as  I  said,  the  reflection  of  the  sun  upon  the 
city,  for  the  city  was  of  pure  gold,  was  so  extremely  glorious,  that  they 
could  not  as  yet  with  open  face  behold  it,  but  through  an  instrument 
made  for  that  purpose.  So  T  saw  that,  as  they  went  on,  there  met 
them  two  men  in  raiment  that  shone  like  gold ;  also  their  faces  shone 
as  the  light. 

These  men  asked  the  pilgrims  whence  they  came.  They  also  asked 
them  where  they  had  lodged,  what  difficulties  and  dangers,  what  com- 
forts and  pleasures,  they  had  met  with  in  the  way  .f*  and  they  told  them. 
Then  said  the  men  that  met  them,  You  have  but  two  difficulties  more 
to  meet  with,  and  then  you  are  in  the  city. 

Christian  and  his  companion  then  asked  the  men  to  go  along  with 
them ;  so  they  told  them  that  they  would.  But,  said  they,  you  must 
obtain  it  by  your  own  faith.  So  I  saw  in  my  dream  that  they  went  on 
together  till  they  came  in  sight  of  the  gate. 

Now,  I  further  saw  that  betwixt  them  and  the  gate  was  a  river,  but 
there  was  no  bridge  to  go  over,  and  the  river  was  very  deep.  At  the 
sight,  therefore,  of  this  river,  the  pilgrims  were  much  stunned ;  but 
the  men  that  went  with  them  said,  You  must  go  through,  or  you  can- 
not come  to  the  gate. 

The  pilgrims  then  began  to  inquire  if  there  was  no  other  way  to 
the  gate.''  To  which  they  answered,  Yes,  but  there  hath  not  any, 
save  two,  to  wit,  Enoch  and  Elijah,  been  permitted  to  tread  that  path 
since  the  foundation  of  the  world,  nor  shall,  until  the  last  trumpet 
shall  sound.  The  pilgrims  then,  especially  Christian,  began  to  de- 
spond in  their  minds,  and  looked  this  way  and  that;  but  no  way  could 
be  found  by  them  by  which  they  might  escape  the  river.  Tlien  they 
asked  the  inen  if  the  waters  were  all  of  a  depth .''  They  said.  No ;  3'et 
they  could  not  help  them  in  that  case ;  for,  said  they,  3'ou  shall  find  it 
deeper  or  shallower,  as  you  believe  in  the  king  of  the  place. 

They  then  addressed  themselves  to  the  water,  and,  entering.  Chris- 
tian began  to  sink,  and  crying  out  to  his  good  friend  Hopeful,  he  said, 
I  sink  in  deep  waters  :  the  billows  go  over  my  head ;  all  the  waters  go 
over  me.     Selah. 

Then  said  the  other.  Be  of  good  cheer,  my  brother;  I  feel  the  bot- 
tom, and  it  is  good.  Then  said  Christian,  Ah  !  my  friend,  the  sorrow 
of  death  hath  encompassed  me  about;  I  shall  not  see  the  land  that 
flows  with  milk  and  honey.  And  with  that  a  great  darkness  and  hor- 
ror fell  upon  Christian,  so  that  .he  could  not  see  before  him.  Also 
here,  in  a  great  measure,  he  lost  his  senses,  so  that  he  could  neither 
remember  nor  orderlj'  talk  of  any  of  those  sweet  refreshments  that  he 
had  met  with  in  the  way  of  his  pilgrimage.  *  *  *  Then  I  saw  in  my 
dream  that  Christian  was  in  a  muse  a  while.  To  whom,  also.  Hope- 
ful added  these  words,  Be  of  good  cheer;  Jesus  Christ  maketh  thee 
whole  :  and  with  that  Christian  brake  out  with  a  loud  voice,  O !  I  see 


A.  ]).  1608-1674.  EDWARD  HYDE.  201 

him  again,  and  he  tells  me,  "When  thou  passest  through  the  waters, 
I  will  be  with  thee;  and  through  the  rivers,  they  shall  not  overflow 
thee."  Then  they  both  took  courage ;  and  the  enemy  was  after  thai 
as  still  as  a  stone,  until  they  were  gone  over.  Christian,  therefore, 
presently  found  ground  to  stand  upon,  and  so  it  followed  that  the  rest 
of  the  river  was  but  shallow,  but  thus  they  got  over. 


Edward  Hyde,  Earl  of  Clarendon,     i  608-1674.    (]Man- 

ual,  pp.  225-227.) 

From  "  The  History  of  the  Great  Rebellion." 

JLoO,   Character  of  John  Hampden. 

Mr.  Hampden  was  a  man  of  much  greater  cunning,  and,  it  may  be, 
of  the  most  discerning  spirit,  and  of  the  greatest  address  and  insinua- 
tion to  bring  anything  to  pass  which  he  desired,  of  any  man  of  that 
time,  and  who  laid  the  design  deepest.  He  was  a  gentleman  of  a  good 
extraction,  and  a  fair  fortune;  who,  from  a  life  of  great  pleasure  and 
license,  had  on  a  sudden  retired  to  extraordinary  sobriety  and  strict- 
ness, and  yet  retained  his  usual  cheerfulness  and  affability;  which, 
together  with  the  opinion  of  his  wisdom  and  justice,  and  the  courage 
he  had  shown  in  opposing  the  ship-money,  raised  his  reputation  to  a 
very  great  height,  not  only  in  Buckinghamshire,  where  he  lived,  but 
generally  throughout  the  kingdom.  He  was  not  a  man  of  many  words, 
and  rarely  begun  the  discourse,  or  made  the  first  entrance  upon  any 
business  that  was  assumed;  but  a  very  weighty  speaker;  and  after  he 
had  heard  a  full  debate,  and  observed  how  the  house  was  like  to  be 
inclined,  took  up  the  argument,  and  shortly,  and  clearly,  and  craftily 
so  stated  it,  that  he  commonly  conducted  it  to  the  conclusion  he  de- 
sired;  and  if  he  found  he  could  not  do  that,  he  was  never  without  the 
dexterity  to  divert  the  debate  to  another  time,  and  to  prevent  the  de- 
termining anything  in  the  negative,  which  might  prove  inconvenient 
in  the  future.         *         *         *         * 

He  was  rather  of  reputation  in  his  own  country,  than  of  public  dis- 
course, or  fame  in  the  kingdom,  before  the  business  of  ship-money; 
but  then  he  grew  the  argimient  of  all  tongues,  every  man  inquiring 
W'ho  and  what  he  was,  that  durst,  at  his  own  charge,  support  the  lib- 
erty and  property  of  the  kingdom,  and  rescue  his  countrj--,  as  he 
thought,  from  being  made  a  prey  to  the  court.  His  carriage,  through- 
out this  agitation,  was  with  that  rare  temper  and  modesty,  that  they 
who  watched  him  narrowly  to  find  some  advantage  against  his  per- 
son, to  make  him  less  resolute  in  his  cause,  were  compelled  to  give 
him  a  just  testimony.  He  was  of  that  rare  affability  and  temper  in 
debate,  and  of  that  seeming  humility  and  submission  of  jiidgment,  as 
if  he  brought  no  opinion  of  his  own  with  him,  but  a  desire  of  infor- 
mation and  instruction ;  yet  he  had  so  subtle  a  way  of  interrogating, 
and,  under  the  notion   of  doubts,  insinuating  his  obiections.  that  he 


202  EDWARD  HYDE.  Chaf.  XII 

infused  his  own  opinions  into  those  from  whom  he  pretended  to  learn 
and  receive  them.  And  even  with  them  who  were  able  to  preserve 
themselves  from  his  infusions,  and  discerned  those  opinions  to  be 
fixed  in  him,  with  which  they  could  not  comply,  he  always  left  the 
character  of  an  ingenious  and  conscientious  person.  He  was,  indeed, 
a  very  wise  man,  and  of  great  parts,  and  possessed  with  the  most  ab- 
solute spirit  of  popularity,  and  the  most  absolute  faculties  to  govern 
the^people,  of  any  man  I  ever  knew. 

In  the  first  entrance  into  the  troubles,  he  undertook  the  command 
of  a  regiment  of  foot,  and  performed  the  duty  of  a  colonel,  upon  all 
occasions,  most  punctually.  He  was  very  temperate  in  diet,  and  a 
supreme  governor  over  all  his  passions  and  afl:ections,  and  had  there- 
by a  great  power  over  other  men's.  He  was  of  an  industry  and  vigi- 
lance not  to  be  tired  out,  or  wearied  by  the  most  laborious ;  and  c/ 
parts  not  to  be  imposed  upon  by  the  subtle  or  sharp ;  and  of  a  per- 
sonal courage  equal  to  his  best  parts  :  so  that  he  was  an  enemy  not  to 
be  wished,  wherever  he  might  have  been  made  a  friend ;  and  as  much 
to  be  apprehended  where  he  was  so,  as  any  man  could  deserve  to  be. 
And  therefore  his  death  was  no  less  pleasing  to  the  one  party,  than  it 
was  condoled  in  the  other. 


15  4  •    Execution  of  Montrose. 

As  soon  as  he  had  ended  his  discourse,  he  was  ordered  to  withdraw; 
and  after  a  short  space,  was  brought  in,  and  told  by  the  chancellor, 
"that  he  was,  on  the  morrow,  being  the  one-and-twentieth  of  May, 
1650,  to  be  carried  to  Edinburgh  cross,  and  there  to  be  hanged  on  a 
gallows  thirty  foot  high,  for  the  space  of  three  hours,  and  then  to  be 
taken  down,  and  his  head  to  be  cut  off  upon  a  scaffold,  and  hanged  or 
Edinburgh  tollbooth;  and  his  legs  and  arms  to  be  hanged  up  in  other 
public  towns  of  the  kingdom,  and  his  body  to  be  buried  at  the  place 
where  he  was  to  be  executed,  except  the  kirk  should  take  off  his  ex- 
communication;  and  then  his  body  might  be  buried  in  the  common 
place  of  burial."  He  desired  "  that  he  might  say  somewhat  to  them," 
but  was  not  suffered,  and  so  was  carried  back  to  the  prison.      *      *      ♦ 

The  next  day  they  executed  every  part  and  circumstance  of  that  bar- 
barous sentence,  with  all  the  inhumanity  imaginable;  and  he  bore  it 
with  all  the  courage  and  magnanimity,  and  the  greatest  piety,  that  a 
good  Christian  could  manifest.  He  magnified  the  virtue,  courage, 
and  religion  of  the  last  king,  exceedingly  commended  the  justice  and 
goodness,  and  understanding  of  the  present  king,  and  prayed  "that 
they  might  not  betray  him  as  they  had  done  his  father."  When  he  had 
ended  all  he  meant  to  say,  and  was  expecting  to  expire,  they  had  yet 
one  scene  more  to  act  of  their  tyranny.  The  hangman  brought  the 
book  that  had  been  published  of  his  truly  heroic  actions,  whilst  he 
had  commanded  in  that  kingdom,  which  book  was  tied  in  a  small  cord 
that  was  put  about  his  neck.    The  marquis  smiled  at  this  new  instance 


.\.  D.  1593-1683.  IZAAK  WALTON.  203 

of  their  malice,  and  thanked  them  for  it,  and  said,,  "he  was  pleased 
that  it  should  be  there,  and  was  prouder  of  wearing  it  than  ever  he 
had  been  of  the  garter;"  and  so  renewing  some  devout  ejaculations, 
he  patiently  endured  the  last  act  of  the  executioner. 

Thus  died  the  gallant  Marquis  of  Montrose,  after  he  had  given  as 
great  a  testimony  of  loyalty  and  courage  as  a  subject  can  do,  and  per- 
formed as  wonderful  actions  in  several  battles,  upon  as  great  inequality 
of  numbers,  and  as  great  disadvantages  in  respect  of  arms,  and  other 
preparation  >  for  war,  as  have  been  performed  in  this  age.  He  was  a 
gentleman  of  a  very  ancient  extraction,  many  of  whose  ancestors  had 
exercised  the  highest  charges  under  the  king  in  that  kingdom,  and 
had  been  allied  to  the  crown  itself.  He  was  of  very  good  parts,  which 
were  improved  by  a  good  education  :  he  had  always  a  great  emula- 
tion, or  rather  a  great  contempt  of  the  Marquis  of  Argyle  (as  he  was 
too  apt  to  contemn  those  he  did  not  love),  who  wanted  nothing  but 
honesty  and  courage  to  be  a  very  extraordinary  man,  having  all  other 
good  talents  in  a  great  degree.  Montrose  was  in  his  nature  fearless 
of  danger,  and  never  declined  any  enterprise  for  the  difficulty  of  going 
through  with  it,  but  exceedingly  affected  those  which  seemed  desperate 
to  other  men,  and  did  believe  somewhat  to  be  in  himself  which  other 
men  were  not  acquainted  with,  which  made  him  live  more  easily  to- 
wards those  who  were,  or  were  willing  to  be,  inferior  to  him  (towards 
whom  he  exercised  wonderful  civility  and  generosity),  than  with  his 
superiors  or  equals.  He  was  naturally  jealous,  and  suspected  those 
who  did  not  concur  with  him  in  the  way,  not  to  mean  so  well  as  he. 
He  was  not  without  vanity,  but  his  virtues  were  much  superior,  and 
he  well  deserved  to  have  his  memory  preserved  and  celebrated  amongst 
the  most  illustrious  persons  of  the  age  in  which  he  lived. 


158*  IzAAK  Walton.     1593-1683.     (Manual,  p.  227.) 

From  "The  Complete  Angler." 
Fishing. 

But  turn  out  of  the  way  a  little,  good  scholar,  towards  j'onder  high 
honeysuckle  hedge;  there  we'll  sit  and  sing  whilst  this  shower  falls  so 
gently  upon  the  teeming  earth,  and  gives  yet  a  sweeter  smell  to  the 
lovely  flowers  that  adorn  these  verdant  meadows. 

Look,  under  that  broad  beech-tree,  I  sat  down  when  I  was  last  this 
way  a-fishing,  and  the  birds  in  the  adjoining  grove  seemed  to  have  a 
friendly  contention  with  an  echo,  whose  dead  voice  seemed  to  live  in 
a  hollow  tree,  near  to  the  brow  of  that  primrose-hill ;  there  I  sat  view- 
ing the  silver  streams  glide  silently  towards  their  centre,  the  tempes- 
tuous sea ;  yet  sometimes  opposed  by  rugged  roots  and  pebble  stones, 
which  broke  their  waves,  and  turned  them  into  foam  :  and  sometimes 
I  beguiled  time  by  viewing  the  harmless  lamb?,  some  leaping  securely 


204  TZAAK  WALTON.  Chap.  Xll. 

in  the  cool  shade*,  whilst  others  sported  themselves  in  the  cheerful 
sun,  and  saw  others  craving  comfort  from  the  swollen  udders  of  their 
bleating  dams.  As  I  thus  sat,  these  and  other  sights  had  so  fully 
possessed  my  soul  with  content,  that  I  thought,  as  the  poet  has  hap- 
pily expressed  it, 

'Twas  for  that  time  lifted  above  earth, 

And  possessed  joys  not  promised  in  my  birth. 

As  I  left  this  place,  and  entered  into  the  next  field,  a  second  pleas- 
ure entertained  me ;  it  was  a  handsome  milkmaid  that  had  not  yet 
attained  so  much  age  and  wisdom  as  to  load  her  mind  with  any  fears 
of  many  things  that  will  never  be,  as  too  many  men  too  often  do;  but 
she  cast  away  all  care,  and  sung  like  a  nightingale  :  her  voice  was 
good,  and  the  ditty  fitted  for  it :  it  was  that  smooth  song  which  was 
made  by  Kit  Marlow,  now  at  least  fifty  years  ago  ;  and  the  milkmaid's 
mother  sung  an  answer  to  it,  which  was  niade  by  Sir  Walter  Raleigh 
in  his  younger  days. 

They  were  old-fashioned  poetry,  but  choicely  good ;  I  thiiik  much 
better  than  the  strong  lines  that  are  now  in  fashion  in  this  critical  age. 
Look  yonder!  on  my  word,  yonder  they  both  be  a-milking  again.  I 
will  give  her  the  chub,  and  persuade  them  to  sing  those  two  songs 
to  us. 

Contentment. 

I  knew  a  man  that  had  health  and  riches,  and  several  houses,  all 
beautiful  and  ready  furnished,  and  would  often  trouble  himself  and 
family  to  be  removing  from  one  house  to  another;  and  being  asked 
by  a  friend  why  he  removed  so  often  from  one  house  to  another,  re- 
plied, "  It  was  to  find  content  in  some  of  them."  But  his  friend,  know- 
ing his  temper,  told  him,  "If  he  would  find  content  in  any  of  his 
houses,  he  must  leave  himself  behind  him  ;  for  content  will  never  dwell 
but  in  a  meek  and  qaiet  soul."  And  this  may  appear,  if  we  read  and 
consider  what  our  Saviour  says  in  St.  Matthew's  Gospel,  for  He  there 
says,  "Blessed  be  the  merciful,  for  they  shall  obtain  mercy.  Blessed 
be  the  pure  in  heart,  for  they  shall  see  God.  Blessed  be  the  poor  in 
spirit,  for  theirs  is  the  .kingdom  of  heaven.  And  blessed  be  the  meek, 
for  they  shall  possess  the  earth."  Not  that  the  meek  shall  not  also 
obtain  mercy,  and  see  God,  and  be  comforted,  and  at  last  come  to  the 
kingdom  of  heaven  ;  but,  in  the  mean  tiine,  he,  and  he  only,  possesses 
the  earth,  as  he  goes  toward  that  kingdom  of  heaven,  by  being  humble 
and  cheerful,  and  content  with  what  his  good  God  has  allotted  him. 
He  has  no  turbulent,  repining,  vexatious  thoughts  that  he  deserves 
better;  nor  is  vexed  when  he  sees  others  possessed  of  more  honor  or 
more  riches  than  his  wise  God  has  allotted  for  his  share;  but  he  pos- 
sesses what  he  has  with  a  meek  and  contented  quietness,  such  a  quiet- 
ness as  makes  his  very  dreams  pleasing,  both  to  God  and  himself. 


A.  D.  1G20-1706.      JOHN  EVELYN.  — SAMUEL   PEPYS.       203 


John  Evelyn.     1620-1706.     (Manual,  p.  229.) 

J ''SO,     St.  Paul's  Cathedral  and  the  Fire  of  London. 

(Diary.) 

At  mj  return  I  was  infinitely  concern'd  to  find  that  goodly  church 
St.  Paules  now  a  sad  ruine,  and  that  beautiful  portico  —  for  structure 
cDrnparable  to  any  in  Europe,  as  not  long  before  repair'd  by  tl»e  king 
—  now  rent  in  pieces,  flakes  of  vast  stone  split  asunder,  and  nothing 
remaining  intire  but  the  inscription  ij\  the  architrave,  showing  by 
whom  it  was  built,  which  had  not  one  letter  of  it  defac'd.  It  was 
astonishing  to  see  what  immense  stones  the  heat  had  in  a  manner 
calcin'd,  so  that  all  y°  ornaments,  columns,  freezes,  and  projectures  of 
massie  Portland  stone  flew  off,  even  to  y"^  very  roofe,  where  a  sheet  of 
lead  covering  a  great  space  was  totally  melted ;  the  ruins  of  the 
vaulted  roofe  falling,  broke  into  St.  Faith's,  which  being  filled  with  the 
magazines  of  bookes  belonging  to  y^  stationers,  and  carried  thither 
for  safety,  they  were  all  consum'd,  burning  for  a  weeke  following.  It 
is  also  observable  that  the  lead  over  y^  alter  at  y®  east  end  was  un- 
touch'd,  and  among  the  divers  monuments  the  body  of  one  bishop 
remain'd  intire.  Thus  lay  in  ashes  that  most  venerable  church,  one 
of  the  most  antient  pieces  of  early  piety  in  y^  Christian  world,  besides 
neere  100  more.  The  lead,  yron  worke  bells,  plate,  &c.,  melted;  the 
exquisitely  wrought  Mercers  Chapell,  the  sumptuous  Exchange,  y^  au- 
gust fabriq  of  Christ  Christ,  all  y^  rest  of  the  Companies  Halls,  sump- 
tuous buildings,  arches,  all  in  dust;  the  fountaines  dried  up  and  ruin'd, 
whilst  the  very  waters  remain'd  boiling;  the  vorago's  of  subterranean 
cellars,  wells,  and  dungeons,  formerly  warehouses,  still  burning  in 
stench  and  dark  clouds  of  smoke,  so  that  in  five  or  six  miles,  in 
traversing  about,  I  did  not  see  one  load  of  timber  unconsum'd,  nor 
many  stones  but  what  calcin'd  white  as  snow.  The  people  who  now 
walk'd  about  y^  mines  appear'd  like  men  in  a  dismal  desart,  or  rather 
in  some  greate  cittj^  laid  waste  by  a  cruel  enemy,  to  which  was  added 
the  stench  that  came  from  some  poore  creatures  bodies,  beds,  &c. 


Samuel  Pepys.      i 632-1 703.      (Manual,  p.  229.) 
100,    Mr.  Pepys  quarrels  with  his  Wife.     (Diary.) 

May  II,  1667. — My  wife  being  dressed  this  day  in  fair  hair,  did 
make  me  so  mad,  that  I  spoke  not  one  word  to  her,  though  I  was 
ready  to  burst  with  anger.  After  that.  Creed  and  I  into  the  Park,  and 
walked,  a  most  pleasant  evening,  and  so  took  coach,  and  took  up  my 
wife,  and  in  my  way  home  discovered  m>'  trouble  to  my  wife  for  her 
white  locks,  swearing  several  times,  which  I  pray  God  forgive  me  for, 
and  bend-ng  my  fist,  that  I  would  not  endure  it.  She,  poor  wretch, 
was  surpiised  with  it,   and  made  me  no  answer  all  the  way  home; 


200  SAMUEL   PEPYS.  Chap.  XII. 

but  there  we  parted,  and  I  to  the  office  late,  and  then  home,  and  with- 
out supper  to  bed,  vexed. 

13.  (Lord's  Day.)  — Up  and  to  my  chamber,  to  settle  some  accounts 
there,  and  by  and  by  down  comes  my  wife  to  me  in  her  night-gown, 
and  we  begun  calmly,  that,  upon  having  money  to  lace  her  gown  foi 
second  mourning,  she  would  promise  to  wear  white  locks  no  more  in 
my  sight,  which  I,  like  a  severe  fool,  thinking  not  enough,  begun  to 
except  against,  and  made  her  f\y  out  to  very  high  terms  and  cry,  and 
in  her  heat,  told  me  of  keeping  company  with  Mrs.  Knipp,  saying, 
that  if  I  would  promise  never  to  see  her  more  —  of  whom  she  had 
more  reason  to  suspect  than  I  had  heretofore  of  Pembleton  —  she 
would  never  wear  white  locks  more.  This  vexed  me,  but  I  restrained 
myself  from  saying  anything,  but  do  think  never  to  see  this  woman  —  at 
least,  to  have  here  more;  and  so  all  very  good  friends  as  ever.  My 
wife  and  I  bethought  ourselves  to  go  to  a  French  house  to  dinner,  and 
so  inquired  out  Monsieur  Robins,  my  perriwigg-maker,  who  keeps  an 
ordinary,  and  in  an  ugly  street  in  Covent  Garden  did  find  him  at  the 
door,  and  so  we  in ;  and  in  a  moment  almost  had  the  table  covered, 
and  clean  glasses,  and  all  in  the  French  manner,  and  a  mess  of  potage 
first,  and  then  a  piece  of  boeuf-a-la-mode,  all  exceeding  well  seasoned, 
and  to  our  great  liking;  at  least  it  would  have  been  anywhere  else 
but  in  this  bad  street,  and  in  a  perriwigg-maker's  house ;  but  to  see 
the  pleasant  and  ready  attendance  that  we  had,  and  all  things  so 
desirous  to  please,  and  ingenious  in  the  people,  did  take  me  mightily. 
Our  dinner  cost  us  6*. 


A.  D.  10^2-1704.  JOHN  LOCKE.  207 


CHAPTER   XIII. 

THE    SECOND    REVOLUTION. 


John  Locke.     1632-1704.     (Manual,  pp.  249-254.) 

From  the  "Essay  on  the  Human  Understanding."     Book  II., 

Ch.  7. 

lOl*    Uses  of  Pleasure  and  Pain. 

3.  The  infinitely  wise  Author  of  our  being,  having  given  us  the 
power  over  several  parts  of  our  bodies,  to  move  or  keep  them  at  rest 
as  we  think  fit,  and  also,  by  the  motion  of  them,  to  move  ourselves 
and  other  contiguous  bodies,  in  which  consist  all  the  actions  of  our 
body;  having  also  given  a  power  to  our  minds,  in  several  instances, 
to  choose,  amongst  its  ideas,  which  it  will  think  on,  and  to  pursue  the 
inquiry  of  this  or  that  subject  with  consideration  and  attention,  to  ex- 
cite us  to  these  actions  of  thinking  and  motion  that  we  are  capable  of, 
has  been  pleased  to  join  to  several  thoughts  and  several  sensations  a 
perception  of  delight.  If  this  were  wholly  separated  from  all  our  out- 
ward sensations  and  inward  thoughts,  we  should  have  no  reason  to 
prefer  one  thought  or  action  to  another,  negligence  to  attention,  or 
motion  to  rest,  and  so  we  should  neither  stir  our  bodies  nor  employ 
our  minds,  but  let  our  thoughts  (if  I  may  so  call  it)  run  adrift,  with- 
out any  direction  or  design,  and  suffer  the  ideas  of  our  minds,  like 
unregarded  shadows,  to  make  their  appearances  there,  as  it  happened, 
without  attending  to  them;  in  which  state  man,  however  furnished 
with  faculties  of  understanding  and  will,  would  be  a  very  idle,  inac- 
tive creature,  and  pass  his  time  only  in  a  lazy,  lethargic  dream.  It 
has,  therefore,  pleased  our  wise  Creator  to  annex  to  several  objects, 
and  the  ideas  which  we  receive  from  them,  as  also  to  several  *  of  our 
thoughts,  a  concomitant  pleasure,  and  that  in  several  objects,  to  sev- 
eral degrees,  that  those  faculties  which  he  had  endowed  us  with  might 
not  remain  wholly  idle  and  unemploj^ed  by  us. 

4.  Pain  has  the  same  efficacy  and  use  to  set  us  on  work  that  pleasure 
has,  we  being  as  ready  to  employ  our  faculties  to  avoid  that  as  to  pur- 
sue this;  only  this  is  worth  our  consideration,  that  pain  is  often  pro- 
duced by  the  same  objects  and  ideas  that  produce  pleasure  in  us. 
This  their  near  conjunction,  which   makes  us  often  feel  pain  in  the 

1  Distinct,  or  difi'ereut;  -.n  obsolete  use  nf  tho  won!  ifeveral. 


208  ISAAC  BARROW.  Chap.  XIII. 

sensations  where  we  expected  pleasure,  gives  us  new  occasion  of  ad- 
miring the  wisdom  and  goodness  of  our  Maker,  who,  designing  the 
preservation  of  our  being,  has  annexed  pain  to  tlie  application  of 
many  things  to  our  bodies,  to  warn  us  of  the  harm  that  thej  will  do, 
and  as  advices  to  withdraw  from  them.  But  he,  not  designing  our 
preservation  barelj,  but  the  preservation  of  every  part  and  organ  in 
its  perfection,  hath  in  many  cases  annexed  pain  to  those  very  ideas 
which  delight  us.  Thus  heat,  that  is  very  agreeable  to  us  in  one  de- 
gree, by  a  little  greater  increase  of  it  proves  no  ordinary  torment; 
and  the  most  pleasant  of  all  sensible  objects,  light  itself,  if  there  be 
too  much  of  it,  if  increased  beyond  a  due  proportion  to  our  eyes, 
causes  a  very  painful  sensation,  which  is  wisely  and  favorably  so 
ordered  by  nature,  that  when  any  object  does,  by  the  vehemency  of  its 
operation,  disorder  the  instruments  of  sensation,  whose  structures 
cannot  but  be  very  nice  and  delicate,  we  might,  by  the  pain,  be  warned 
to  withdraw  before  the  organ  be  quite  put  out  of  order,  and  so  be  un- 
fitted for  its  proper  function  for  the  future.  The  consideration  of  those 
objects  that  produce  it  may  well  persuade  'us  that  this  is  the  end  or 
use  of  pain ;  for  though  great  light  be  insufferable  to  our  eyes,  yet  the 
highest  degree  of  darkness  does  not  at  all  disease  them,  because  that, 
causing  no  disorderly  motion  in  it,  leaves  that  curious  organ  un- 
harmed in  its  natural  state.  But  yet  excess  of  cold  as  well  as  heat 
pains  us,  because  it  is  equally  destructive  to  that  temper  which  is  neces- 
sary to  the  preservation  of  life,  and  the  exercise  of  the  several  func- 
tions of  the  body,  and  which  consists  in  a  moderate  degree  of  warmth, 
or,  if  you  please,  a  motion  of  the  insensible  parts  of  our  bodies,  con- 
fined within  certain  bounds.* 

1  It  is  worthy  of  remark  that,  in  this  passage,  Locke  clearly  anticipates  the  recent  doctrine  that  "  heat 
is  a  mode  of  motion." 


162,   Isaac  Barrow.     1630-1677.     (Manual,  pp.  254-256.) 

God. 

The  first  excellency  peculiar  to  the  Christian  doctrine  I  observe  to 
be  this  ;  that  it  assigneth  a  true,  proper,  and  complete  character  or 
notion  of  God ;  complete,  I  mean,  not  absolutelj^  but  in  respect  to  our 
condition  and  capacity;  such  a  notion  as  agreeth  thoroughly  with 
what  the  best  reason  dictateth,  the  works  of  nature  declare,  ancient 
tiadition  doth  attest,  and  common  experience  doth  intimate,  concern- 
ing God ;  such  a  character  as  is  apt  to  breed  highest  love  and  rever- 
ence in  men's  hearts  towards  him,  to  engage  them  in  the  strictest 
practice  of  duty  and  obedience  to  him.  It  ascribeth  unto  him  all  con- 
ceivable perfections  of  nature  in  the  highest  degree;  it  asserteth  unto 
him  all  his  due  rights  and  prerogatives;  it  commend.eth  and  justifieth 
to  us  all  his  actions  and  proceedings.  For  in  his  essence  it  represent- 
eth  him    one,   eternal,  perfectly  simple    and  pure,  omnipresent,   om- 


A.  D.  1630-1677.  ISAAC   BAEROW.  209 

niscient.  omnipotent,  independent,  impassible,  and  immutable;  a? 
also,  according  to  his  essential  disposition  of  will  and  natural  manner 
of  acting,  most  absolute  and  free,  most  good  and  benign,  most  holy  and 
just,  most  veracious  and  constant;  it  acknowledgeth  him  the  maker 
and  upholder  of  all  beings,  of  what  nature  and  what  degree  soever, 
both  material  and  immaterial,  visible  and  invisible;  it  attributeth  to 
him  supreme  majesty  and  authority  over  all.  It  informeth  us  that  he 
framed  this  visible  world  with  especial  regard  to  our  use  and  benefit; 
that  he  preserveth  it  with  the  same  gracious  respect;  that  he  govern- 
eth  us  with  a  particular  care  and  providence,  viewing  all  the  thoughts, 
and  ordering  all  the  actions,  of  men  to  good  ends,  general  or  partic- 
ular. It  declareth  him  in  his  dealings  with  rational  creatures  very 
tender  and  careful  of  their  good,  exceeding  beneficent  and  merciful 
towards  them,  compassionate  of  their  evils,  placable  for  their  offences, 
accessible  and  inclinable  to  help  them  at  their  entreaty,  or  in  their 
need,  yet  nowise  fond  or  indulgent  to  them,  not  enduring  them  to 
proceed  in  perverse  or  wanton  courses,  but  impartially  just,  and  in- 
flexibly severe  towards  all  iniquity  obstinately  pursued ;  it,  in  short, 
describeth  him  most  amiable  in  his  goodness,  most  terrible  in  his 
justice,  most  glorious  and  venerable  in  all  his  ways  of  providence. 

What  is  Wit.? 

To  the  question  what  the  thing  we  speak  of  is,  or  what  this  face- 
tiousness  doth  import.'*  I  might  reply,  as  Democritus  did  to  him  that 
asked  the  definition  of  a  rnan,  'Tis  that  which  we  all  see  and  know  : 
any  one  better  apprehends  what  it  is  by  acquaintance  than  I  can  in- 
form him  by  description.  It  is  indeed  a  thing  so  versatile  and  multi- 
form, appearing  in  so  many  shapes,  so  many  postures,  so  many  garbs, 
so  variously  apprehended  by  several  ej^es  and  judgments,  that  it  seem- 
eth  no  less  hard  to  settle  a  clear  and  certain  notion  thereof,  than  to 
make  a  portrait  of  Proteus,  or  to  define  the  figure  of  a  fleeting  air. 
Sometimes  it  lieth  in  pat  allusion  to  a  known  story,  or  in  seasonable 
application  of  a  trivial  saying,  or  in  forging  an  apposite  tale :  some- 
times it  playeth  in  words  and  phrases,  taking  advantage  from  the  am- 
biguity of  their  sense,  or  the  aflinity  of  their  sound  :  sometimes  it  is 
wrapped  in  a  dress  of  humorous  expression  :  sometimes  it  lurketh 
under  an  odd  similitude:  sometimes  it  is  lodged  in  a  sly  question,* in 
a  smart  answer,  in  a  quirkish  reason,  in  a  shrewd  imitation,  in  cun- 
ningly diverting,  or  cleverly  retorting  an  objection:  sometimes  it  is 
couched  in  a  bold  scheme  of  speech,  in  a  tart  irony,  in  a  lusty  hyper- 
bole, in  a  startling  metaphor,  in  a  plausible  reconciling  of  contradic- 
tions, or  in  acute  nonsense :  sometimes  a  scenical  representation  of 
persons  or  things,  a  counterfeit  speech,  a  mimical  look  or  gesture 
passeth  for  it:  sometimes  an  affected  simplicity,  sometimes  a  pre- 
sumptuous bluntness,  giveth  it  being :  sometimes  it  riseth  from  a 
lucky  hitting  upon  what  is  strange,  sometimes  from  a  crafty  wresting 
obvious  matter  to  the  purpose :  often  it  consisteth  in  one  knows  not 


210  JOHN  TILLOTSON.  Chap.  XIII. 

what,  and  springeth  up  one  can  hardly  tell  how.  Its  ways  are  unac- 
countable and  inexplicable,  being  answerable  to  the  numberless  rov- 
ings  of  fancy  and  windings  of  language.  It  is,  in  short,  a  manner  of 
speaking  out  of  the  simple  and  plain  way  (such  as  reason  teacheth 
and  proveth  things  by),  which,  by  a  pretty  surprising  uncouthness  in 
conceit  or  expression,  doth  affect  and  amuse  the  fancy,  stirring  in  it 
some  wonder,  and  breeding  some  delight  thereto. 


John  Tillotson.     1630- 1694.     (Manual,  p.  256.) 

103m    Happiness  is  Goodness. 

Another  most  considerable  and  essential  ingredient  of  happiness  is 
goodness,  without  which,  as  there  can  be  no  true  inajesty  and  great- 
ness, so  neither  can  there  be  any  felicity  or  happiness.  Now  good- 
ness is  a  generous  disposition  of  mind  to  communicate  and  diffuse 
itself,  by  making  others  partakers  of  its  happiness  in  such  degrees  as 
they  are  capable  of  it,  and  as  wisdom  shall  direct.  For  he  is  not  so 
happy  as  may  be,  who  hath  not  the  pleasure  of  making  others  so,  and 
of  seeing  them  put  into  a  happy  condition  by  his  means,  which  is 
the  highest  pleasure,  I  had  almost  said  pride,  but  I  may  truly  say 
glory,  of  a  good  and  great  mind.  For  by  such  communications  of 
himself,  an  immense  and  all-sufficient  being  doth  not  lessen  himself, 
or  put  anything  out  of  his  power,  but  doth  rather  enlarge  and  mag- 
nify himself;  and  does,  as  I  may  say,  give  great  ease  and  delight  to  a 
full  and  fruitful  being,  without  the  least  diminution  of  his  power  and 
happiness.  For  the  cause  and  original  of  all  other  beings  can  make 
nothing  so  independent  upon  itself  as  not  still  to  maintain  his  interest 
in  it,  to  have  it  always  under  his  power  and  government;  and  no 
being  can  rebel  against  his  Maker,  without  extreme  hazard  to  himself. 

Perfect  happiness  doth  imply  the  exercise  of  all  other  virtues,  which 
are  suitable  to  so  perfect  a  being,  upon  all  proper  and  fitting  occa- 
sions; that  is,  that  so  perfect  a  being  do  nothing  that  is  contrary  to 
or  unbecoming  his  holiness  and  righteousness,  his  truth  and  faithful- 
ness, which  are  essential  to  a  perfect  being;  and  for  such  a  being  to 
act  contrary  to  them  in  any  case,  would  be  to  create  disquiet  and  dis- 
turbance to  itself.  For  this  is  a  certain  rule,  and  n.ever  fails,  that 
nothing  can  act  contrary  to  its  own  nature  without  reluctancy  and 
displeasure,  which  in  moral  agents  is  that  which  we  call  guilt;  for 
guilt  is  nothing  else  but  the  trouble  and  disquiet  which  ariseth  in 
one's  mind,  from  the  consciousness  of  having  done  something  which 
is  contrary  to  the  perfective  principles  of  his  being,  that  is.  something 
that  doth  not  become  him,  and  which,  being  what  he  is,  he  ought  not 
to  have  done;  which  we  cannot  imagine  ever  to  befall  so  perfect  and 
immutable  a  being  as  God  is. 

Perfect  happiness  implies   in   it  the  settled  and  secure  possession  (»f 


A.  D.  1633-1716.  ROBERT  SOUTH,  211 

all  those  excellences  and  perfections;  for  if  any  of  these  were  liable, 
to  fail,  oi  be  diminished,  so  much  would  be  taken  off  from  perfect  and 
complete  happiness.  If  the  Deitj  were  subject  to  any  change  or  im- 
pairment of  his  condition,  so  that  either  his  knowledge,  or  power.,  or 
wisdom,  or  goodness,  or  any  other  perfection,  could  any  ways  decline 
or  fall  off,  there  would  be  a  proportionate  abatement  of  happiness. 
And  from  all  those  do  result,  in  the  last  place,  infinite  contentment 
and  satisfaction,  pleasure  and  delight,  which  is  the  very  essencf  of 
happiness. 

Infinite  contentment  and  satisfaction  in  this  condition.  And  well 
may  happiness  be  contented  with  itself;  that  is,  with  such  a  condi- 
tion, that  he  that  is  possessed  of  it,  can  neither  desire  it  should  be 
better,  nor  have  any  cause  to  fear  it  should  be  worse. 

Pleasure  and  delight,  which  is  something  more  than  contentment; 
for  one  may  be  contented  with  an  affliction,  and  painful  condition,  in 
which  he  is  far  from  taking  any  pleasure  or  delight.  "  No  affliction 
is  joyous  for  the  present  but  grievous,"  as  the  apostle  speaks.  But 
there  cannot  be  a  perfect  happiness  without  pleasure  in  our  condition. 
Full  pleasure  is  a  certain  mixture  of  love  and  joy,  hard  to  be  expressed 
in  words,  but  certainly  known  by  inward  sense  and  experience 


Robert  South.     1633-1716.     (Manual,  p.  257.) 

164,   The  State  of  Man  before  the  Fall. 

The  understanding,  the  noblest  faculty  of  the  mind,  was  then  sub- 
lime, clear,  and  aspiring,  and  as  it  were  the  soul's  upper  region,  lofty 
and  serene,  free  from  the  vapors  and  disturbances  of  the  inferior 
affections.  It  was  the  leading,  controlling  faculty;  all  the  passions 
wore  the  colors  of  reason;  it  did  not  so  much  persuade  as  command; 
it  was  not  consul,  but  dictator.  Discourse  was  then  almost  as  quick 
as  intuition;  it  was  nimble  in  proposing,  firm  in  concluding;  it  could 
sooner  determine  than  now  it  can  dispute.  Like  the  sun,  it  had  both 
light  and  agility;  it  knew  no  rest  but  in  motion;  no  quiet  but  in 
activity.  It  did  not  so  properly  apprehend  as  irradiate  the  object;  not 
so  much  find  as  make  things  intelligible.  It  arbitrated  upon  the  sev- 
eral reports  of  sense,  and  all  the  varieties  of  imagination;  not,  like  a 
drowsy  judge,  only  hearing,  but  also  directing  their  verdict.  In 
5hort,  it  was  vegete,'  quick,  and  lively;  open  as  the  day,  untainted  as 
the  morning,  full  of  the  innocence  and  sprightliness  of  youth;  it  gave 
the  soul  a  bright  and  full  view  into  all  things ;  and  was  not  only  a 
window,  but  itself  the  prospect.  Adam  came  into  the  world  a  philos 
opher,  which  sufficiently  appeared  by  his  writing  the  nature  of  things 
upon  their  names ;  he  could  view  essences  in  themselves,  and  read 
forms  without  the  comment  of  their  respective  properties ;  he  could 
see  consequents  yet  dormant  in  their  principles,  and  fleets  vet  unborn 

1  Vi;;orou3. 


212  WILLIAM   SHERLOCK.  Chap.  XIII. 

in  the  womb  of  their  causes ;  his  understanding  could  ahnost  pierce 
into  future  contingents,  his  conjectures  improving  even  to  prophecy, 
or  the  certainties  of  prediction ;  till  his  fall,  he  was  ignorant  of  noth- 
ing but  sin;  or,  at  least,  it  rested  in  the  notion,  without  the  smart  of 
the  experiment.  Could  any  difficulty  have  been  proposed,  the  reso- 
lution would  have  been  as  earlj'^  as  the  proposal;  it  could  not  have 
had  time  to  settle  into  doubt.  Like  a  better  Archimedes,  the  issue  of 
all  his  inquiries  was  an  "  I  have  found  it,  I  have  found  it!  "  —  the  off- 
spring of  his  brain,  without  the  sweat  of  his  brow.  Study  was  not 
then  a  duty,  night-watchings  were  needless  ;  the  light  of  reason  wanted 
not  the  assistance  of  a  candle.  This  is  the  doom  of  fallen  man,  to 
labor  in  the  fire,  to  seek  truth  in  the  deep,  to  exhaust  his  time,  and  to 
impair  his  health,  and  perhaps  to  spin  out  his  days  and  hiinself  into 
one  pitiful  controverted  conclusion.  There  was  then  no  poring,  no 
struggling  with  memory,  no  straining  for  invention;  his  faculties 
were  quick  and  expedite ;  they  answered  without  knocking,  they  were 
ready  upon  the  first  summons;  there  was  freedom  and  firmness  in  all 
their  operations.  I  confess  it  is  as  difficult  for  us,  who  date  our  igno- 
rance from  our  first  being,  and  were  still  bred  up  with  the  same  in- 
firmities about  us  with  which  we  were  born,  to  raise  our  thoughts  and 
imaginations  to  those  intellectual  perfections  that  attended  our  nature 
in  the  time  of  innocence,  as 'it  is  for  a  peasant  bred  up  in  the  obscuri- 
ties of  a  cottage  to  fancy  in  his  mind  the  unseen  splendors  of  a  court. 
But  by  rating  positives  by  their  privatives,  and  other  acts  of  reason, 
by  which  discourse  supplies  the  want  of  the  reports  of  sense,  we  may 
collect  the  excellency  of  the  understanding  then  by  the  glorious  re- 
mainders of  it  now,  and  guess  at  the  stateliness  of  the  building  by  the 
magnificence  of  its  ruins.  All  those  arts,  rarities,  and  inventions, 
which  vulgar  minds  gaze  at,  the  ingenious  pursue,  and  all  admire,  are 
but  the  relics  of  an  intellect  defaced  with  sin  and  time.  We  admire 
it  now  only  as  antiquaries  do  a  piece  of  old  coin,  for  the  stamp  it 
once  bore,  and  not  for  those  vanishing  lineaments  and  disappearing 
draughts  that  remain  upon  it  at  present.  And  certainly  that  must 
needs  have  been  very  glorious  the  decays  of  which  are  so  admirable. 
He  that  is  comely  when  old  and  decrepit,  surely  was  very  beautiful 
when  he  was  young.  An  Aristotle  was  but  the  rubbish  of  an  Adam, 
and  Athens  but  the  rudiments  of  Paradise. 


WiLLiARi  Sherlock.     1678-1761.     (Manual,  p.  25S.) 

10  o.    Charity. 

The  Gospel,  though  it  has  left  men  in  possession  of  their  ancient 
rights,  yet  has  it  enlarged  the  duties  of  love  and  compassion,  and 
taught  rich  inen  to  consider  the  poor  not  only  as  servants  but  as 
brethren,  and   to  look  on  themselves  not  onlv  as  the  masters,  but  as 


^.  D.  1627-1691.  ROBERT  BOYLE.  213 

the  patrons  and  protectors  of  the  needy.  On  this  view,  the  industri- 
ous poor  are  entitled  to  the  rich  man's  charity;  since,  in  the  candor 
of  the  Gospel,  we  ought  to  assist  our  poor  neighbors,  not  only  to 
live,  but  to  live  comfortably:  and  an  honest,  laborious  poverty  has 
charms  in  it  to  draw  relief  from  any  rich  man  who  has  the  heart  of  a 
Christian  or  even  the  bowels  of  nature.  Mean  families,  though,  per- 
haps, they  may  subsist  by  their  work,  yet  go  through  much  sorrow  to 
earn  their  bread  :  if  they  complain  not,  they  are  more  worthy  of  re- 
gard ;  their  silent  suffering  and  their  contented  resignation  to  Provi- 
dence, entitle  them  to  the  more  compassion ;  and  there  is  a  pleasure, 
not  to  be  described  in  words,  which  the  rich  man  enjoys,  when  he 
makes  glad  the  heart  of  such  patient  sufferers,  and,  b}'  his  liberality, 
makes  them  for  a  time  forget  their  poverty  and  distress ;  that  even, 
with  respect  to  the  present  enjoyments,  the  words  are  verified,  "It  is 
more  blessed  to  give  than  to  receive." 


Robert  Boyle.     1627-1691.     (Manual,  p.  261.) 

From  the  Treatise  "  On  the  Style  of  the  Holy  Scriptures." 

100,   Practical  Sufficiency  of  the  great  Principles  of 

Morals. 

Whereas,  as  the  condition  of  a  monarch,  who  is  possessed  but  of 
one  kingdom  or  province,  is  preferable  to  that  of  a  geographer,  though 
he  be  able  to  discourse  theoretically  of  the  dimensions,  situation,  and 
motion,  or  stability  of  the  whole  terrestrial  globe,  to  carve  it  into 
zones,  climates,  and  parallels,  to  enumerate  the  various  names  and 
etymologies  of  its  various  regions,  and  give  an  account  of  the  extent, 
the  confines,  the  figure,  the  divisions,  &c.,  of  all  the  dominions  and 
provinces  of  it;  so  the  actual  possession  of  one  virtue  is  preferable  to 
the  bare  speculative  knowledge  of  them  all.  Their  master,  Aristotle, 
hath  hei-ein  been  more  plain  and  less  pedantic,  who  (by  the  favor  of 
his  interpreters)  hath  not  been  nice  in  the  method  of  his  ethics.  And, 
indeed,  but  little  theory  is  essentially  requisite  to  the  being  virtuous, 
provided  it  be  duly  understood,  and  cordially  put  in  practice  :  reason 
and  discretion  sufficing,  analogically,  to  extend  and  apply  it  to  the 
particular  occurrences  of  life  (which  otherwise  being  so  near  infinite 
as  to  be  indefinite,  are  not  so  easily  specifiable  in  rules)  ;  as  the  view 
of  the  single  pole-star  directs  the  heedful  pilot,  in  almost  all  the 
various  courses  of  navigation.  And  the  systems  of  moralists  may 
(in  this  particular)  not  unfitly  be  compared  to  heaven,  where  there 
are  luminaries  and  stars  obvious  to  all  eyes,  that  difiuse  beams  suffi- 
cient to  light  us  in  most  ways;  and  as  I,  that,  with  modern  astrono- 
mers, by  an  excellent  telescope,  have  beheld  perhaps  near  a  hundred 
stars  in  the  Pleiades,  where  common  eyes  see  but  six;  and  have  often 
discerned  in  the  Milky  Way,  and  other  pale  parts  of  the  firmaraent, 


214  JOHN  HOWE.  Chap.  XUI. 

numberless  little  stars  generally  unseen,  receive  jet  from  heaven  no 
more  light  useful  to  travel  by,  than  other  men  enjoj;  so  there  are 
certain  grand  principles  and  maxims  in  the  ethics,  which  both  are 
generally  conspicuous,  and  generally  afford  men  much  light  and 
much  direction;  but  the  numerous  little  notions  (admit  them  truths) 
suggested  by  scholarship  to  ethical  writers,  and  by  them  to  us,  thougri 
the  speculation  be  not  unpleasant,  afford  us  very  little  peculiar  light 
to  guide  our  actions  by. 

John  Howe,     i  630-1 705. 

From  "The  Living  Temple." 

167 »    The  Temple  in  Ruins. 

That  God  hath  withdrawn  himself,  and  left  this  his  temple  desolate, 
we  have  many  sad  and  plain  proofs  before  us.  The  stately  ruins  are 
visible  to  every  eye,  that  bear  in  their  front  (yet  extant)  this  doleful 
inscription  —  "Here  God  once  dwelt."  Enough  appears  of  the  ad- 
mirable frame  and  structure  of  the  soul  of  man,  to  show  the  divine 
presence  did  some  time  reside  in  it;  more  than  enough  of  vicious  de- 
formity, to  proclaim  he  is  now  retired  and  gone.  The  lamps  are 
extinct,  the  altar  overturned ;  the  light  and  love  are  now  vanished, 
which  did,  the  one  shine  with  so  heavenly  brightness,  the  other  burn 
with  so  pious  fervor;  the  golden  candlestick  is  displaced,  and  thrown 
away  as  a  useless  thing,  to  make  room  for  the  throne  of  the  prince  of 
darkness;  the  sacred  incense,  which  sent  rolling  up  in  clouds  its  ricn 
perfumes,  is  exchanged  for  a  poisonous,  hellish  vapor,  and  here  is, 
"  instead  of  a  sweet  savor,  a  stench."  The  comely  order  of  this  house 
is  turned  all  into  confusion  ;  "  the  beauties  of  holiness  "  into  noisome 
impurities;  the  "  house  of  prayer  into  a  den  of  thieves,"  and  that  of 
the  worst  and  most  horrid  kind;  for  every  lust  is  a  thief,  and  every 
theft  sacrilege :  continual  rapine  and  robbery  are  committed  upon 
holy  things.  The  noble  powers  which  were  designed  and  dedicated 
to  divine  contemplation  and  delight,  are  alienated  to  the  service  of 
the  most  despicable  idols,  and  employed  unto  vilest  intuitions  and 
embraces;  to  behold  and  admire  lying  vanities,  to  indulge  and  cherish 
lust  and  wickedness.  What  have  not  the  enemies  done  wickedly  in 
the  sanctuary  .-*  How  have  they  broken  down  the  carved  work  thereof, 
and  that  too  with  axes  and  hammers,  the  noise  whereof  was  not  to 
be  heard  in  building,  much  less  in  the  demolishing,  this  sacred  frame  ! 
Look  upon  the  fragment  of  that  curious  sculpture  which  once  adorned 
the  palace  of  that  great  king;  the  relics  of  common  notions;  the 
lively  prints  of  some  undefaced  truth;  the  fair  ideas  of  things;  the 
yet  legible  precepts  that  relate  to  practice.  Behold  !  with  what  accu- 
racy the  broken  pieces  show  these  to  have  been  engraven  by  the  finger 
of  God,  and  how  they  now  lie  torn  and  scattered,  one  in  this  dark 
corner,  another  in  that,  buried  in  heaps  of  dirt  and  rubbish!     There 


A.  D.  1643-1715.  GILBERT  BURNET.  215 

is  not  now  a  system,  an  entire  table  of  coherent  truths  to  be  found,  or 
a  frame  of  holiness,  but  some  shivered  parcels.  And  if  any,  with 
great  toil  and  labor,  apply  themselves  to  drav^r  out  here  one  piece,  and 
there  another,  and  set  them  together,  they  serve  rather  to  show  how 
exquisite  the  divine  workmanship  was  in  the  original  composition, 
than  for  present  use  to  the  excellent  purposes  for  which  the  whole 
was  first  designed. 


Gilbert    Burnet.     1643-1715.     (Manual,  p.  262.) 

lOS,    Character  of  William  III. 

He  had  a  thin  and  weak  body,  was  brown-haired,  and  of  a  clear 
and  delicate  constitution.  He  had  a  Roman  eagle  nose,  bright  and 
sparkling  eyes,  a  large  front,  and  a  countenance  composed  to  gravity 
and  authority.  All  his  senses  were  critical  and  exquisite.  He  was 
always  asthmatical ;  and  the  dregs  of  the  small-pox  falling  on  his 
lungs,  he  had  a  constant  deep  cough.  His  behavior  was  solemn  and 
serious,  seldom  cheerful,  and  but  with  a  few.  He  spoke  little,  and 
very  slowly,  and  most  commonly  with  a  disgusting  dryness,  which 
was  his  character  at  all  times,  except  in  a  day  of  battle;  for  then  he 
was  all  fire,  though  without  passion.  He  was  then  everywhere,  and 
looked  to  everything.  He  had  no  great  advantage  from  his  education. 
De  Witt's  discourses  were  of  great  use  to  him ;  and  he,  being  appre- 
hensive of  the  observation  of  those  who  were  looking  narrowly  into 
everything  he  said  or  did,  had  brought  himself  under  an  habitual 
caution  that  he  could  never  shake  off,  though,  in  another  sense,  it 
proved  as  hurtful  as  it  was  then  necessary  to  his  affairs.  He  spoke 
Dutch,  French,  English,  and  German  equally  well;  and  he  under- 
stood the  Latin,  Spanish,  and  Italian  ;  so  that  he  was  well  fitted  to 
command  armies  composed  of  several  nations.  He  had  a  memory 
that  amazed  all  about  him,  for  it  never  failed  him.  He  was  an  exact 
observer  of  men  and  things.  His  strength  lay  rather  in  a  true  dis- 
cerning and  sound  judgment  than  in  imagination  or  invention.  His 
designs  were  always  great  and  good ;  but  it  was  thought  he  trusted 
too  much  to  that,  and  that  he  did  not  descend  enough  to  the  humors 
of  his  people  to  make  himself  and  his  notions  more  acceptable  to 
them.  This,  in  a  government  that  has  fo  much  of  freedom  in  it  as 
ours,  was  more  necessary  than  he  was  inclined  to  believe.  His  re- 
servedness  grew  on  him;  so  that  it  disgusted  most  of  those  who 
served  him.  But  he  had  observed  the  errors  of  too  much  talking 
more  than  those  of  too  cold  a  silence.  He  did  not  like  contradiction, 
nor  to  have  his  actions  censured ;  but  he  loved  to  employ  and  favor 
those  who  had  the  arts  of  complaisance;  yet  he  did  not  love  flatter- 
ers. His  genius  lay  chiefly  in  war,  in  which  his  courage  was  more 
admired  than  his  conduct.  Great  errors  were  often  committed  by 
him;  but  his  heroical  courage  set  things  right,  as  it  inflamed  tliosG 


21 G  SIB  ISAAC  NEWTON.  Chap.  XIIL 

who  were  about  him.  He  was  too  lavish  of  mone3r  on  some  occa- 
sions, both  in  his  buildings  and  to  his  favorites ;  but  too  sparing  in 
rewarding  services,  or  in  encouraging  those  who  bi^ought  intelligence. 
He  was  apt  to  take  ill  impressions  of  people,  and  these  stuck  long 
with  him;  but  he  never  carried  them  to  indecent  i^evenges.  He  gave 
too  much  way  to  his  own  humor  almost  in  everything,  not  excepting 
that  which  related  to  his  own  health.  He  knew  all  foreign  affairs 
well,  and  understood  the  state  of  every  court  in  Europe  very  particu- 
larly. He  instructed  his  own  ministers  himself;  but  he  did  not  apply 
enough  to  affairs  at  home.  He  believed  the  truth  of  the  Christian 
religion  very  firmly,  and  he  expressed  a  horror  of  atheism  and  blas- 
phemy;  and  though  there  was  much  of  both  in  his  court,  yet  it  was 
always  denied  to  him  and  kept  out  of  his  sight.  He  was  most  exem- 
plarily  decent  and  devout  in  the  public  exercises  of  the  worship  of 
God;  only  on  week  days  he  came  too  seldom  to  them.  He  was  an 
attentive  hearer  of  sermons,  and  was  constant  in  his  private  prayers 
and  in  reading  the  Scriptures ;  and  when  he  spoke  of  religious  mat- 
ters, which  he  did  not  often,  it  was  with  a  becoining  gravity.  His 
indifference  as  to  the  forms  of  church  government,  and  his  being 
zealous  for  toleration,  together  with  his  cold  behavior  towards  the 
clergy,  gave  them  generally  very  ill  impressions  of  him.  In  his  de- 
portment towards  all  about  him,  he  seemed  to  make  little  distinction 
between  the  good  and  the  bad,  and  those  who  served  well  or  those 
who  served  him  ill. 


Sir  Isaac  Newton.     1642-1727.     (Manual,  p.  260.) 
From  a  "Letter  to  Locke." 

100,   Effect  of  an  Experiment  upon  Light. 

The  observation  you  mention  with  Boyle's  book  of  colors,  I  once 
made  upon  myself,  with  the  hazard  of  my  eyes.  The  manner  was 
this ;  I  looked  a  very  little  while  upon  the  sun  in  the  looking-glass 
with  my  right  eye,  and  then  turned  my  eyes  into  a  dark  corner  of  my 
chamber,  and  winked,  to  observe  the  impression  made,  and  the  cir- 
cles of  colors  which  encompassed  it,  and  how  they  decayed  by  de- 
grees, and  at  last  vanished.  This  I  repeated  a  second  and  a  third 
time. 

At  the  third  time,  when  the  phantasm  of  light  and  colors  about 
it  was  almost  vanished,  intending  my  fancy  upon  them  to  see  their 
last  appearance,  I  found  to  my  amazement  that  they  began  to  return, 
and  by  little  and  little  to  become  as  lively  and  vivid  as  when  I  had 
newly  looked  upon  the  sun.  But  when  I  ceased  to  intend  iny  fancy 
upon  them,  they  vanished  again.  After  this  I  found,  that  as  often  as 
I  went  into  the  dark  and  intended  my  mind  upon  them,  as  when  a 
man  looks  earnestly  to  see  anything  which  is  difficult  to  be  seen,  I 
could  make  the  phantasm  return  without  looking  any  more  upon  the 


A.  D.  1642-1727.  SIR  ISAAC  NEWTON.  217 

sun ;  and  the  oftener  I  made  it  return,  the  more  easily  I  could  make 
it  return  again.  And  at  length,  by  only  repeating  this,  without  look- 
ing any  more  upon  the  sun,  I  made  such  an  impression  on  my  eyes, 
that  if  I  looked  upon  the  clouds,  or  a  book,  or  any  bright  object,  I 
saw  upon  it  a  round  bright  shape  like  the  sun;  and,  which  is  still 
stranger,  though  I  looked  on  the  sun  with  my  right  eye  only,  and  not 
with  my  left,  yet  my  fancy  began  to  make  the  impression  upon  my 
left  eye  as  well  as  upon  my  right;  for  if  I  shut  my  right  eye,  and 
looked  upon  a  book  or  the  clouds  with  my  left  eye,  I  could  see  the 
spectrum  of  the  sun  almost  as  plain  as  with  my  right  eye,  if  I  did  but 
intend  my  fancy  a  little  while  upon  it;  for  at  first,  if  I  shut  my  right 
eye,  and  looked  with  my  left,  the  spectrum  of  the  sun  did  not  appear 
till  I  intended  my  fancy  upon  it;  but  by  repeating,  this  appeared  every 
time  more  easily ;  and  now,  in  a  few  hours'  time,  I  had  brought  my 
eyes  to  such  a  pass,  that  I  could  look  upon  no  bright  object  v/ith 
either  eye  but  I  saw  the  sun  before  me,  so  that  I  durst  neither  write 
nor  read ;  but  to  recover  the  use  of  my  eyes,  shut  myself  up  in  my 
chamber,  made  dark,  for  three  days  together,  and  used  all  means  to 
divert  my  imagination  from  the  sun;  for  if  I  thought  upon  him,  I 
presently  saw  his  picture,  though  I  was  in  the  dark.  But  by  keeping 
in  the  dark,  and  emplojang  my  mind  about  other  things,  I  began  in 
three  or  four  days  to  have  some  use  of  my  eyes  again,  and  by  forbear- 
ing a  few  days  longer  to  look  upon  bright  objects,  recovered  them 
pretty  well;  though  not  so  well  but  that,  for  some  months  after,  the 
spectrum  of  the  sun  began  to  return  as  often  as  I  began  to  meditate 
upon  the  phenomenon,  even  though  I  lay  in  bed  in  midnight,  with 
my  curtains  drawn.  But  now  I  have  been  very  well  for  many  years, 
though  I  am  apt  to  think,  that  if  I  durst  venture  my  eyes,  I  could 
still  make  the  phantasm  return  by  the  power  of  my  fancy. 


218  ALEXANDER  FOPE.  Chap.  XIV. 


CHAPTER   XIV. 

F'OPE,  SWIFT,  AND  THE  POETS  IN  THE  REIGNS  OF  QUEEN  ANNK, 

GEORGE  I.,  AND  GEORGE   II. 


Alexander  Pope.     168S-1744.     (Manual,  pp.  265-272.) 

170*    From  the  "Essay  on  Criticism." 

Pride. 

Of  all  the  causes  which  conspire  to  blind 
Man's  erring  judgment,  and  misguide  the  mind, 
What  the  weak  head  with  strongest  bias  rules, 
Is  Pride,  the  never-failing  vice  of  fools. 
Whatever  Nature  has  in  worth  denied, 
She  gives  in  large  recruits  of  needful  Pride! 
For  as  in  bodies,  thus  in  souls,  we  find 
What  wants  in  blood  and  spirits,  swelled  with  wind. 
Pride,  where  Wit  fails,  steps  in  to  our  defence, 
And  fills  up  all  the  mighty  void  of  sense. 
If  once  right  reason  drives  that  cloud  away 
Truth  breaks  upon  us  with  resistless  day. 
Trust  not  yourself;  but,  your  defects  to  know, 
Make  use  of  every  friend  —  and  every  foe. 
*       A  little  learning  is  a  dangerous  thing! 

Drink  deep,  or  taste  not  the  Pierian  spring: 
There  shallow  draughts  intoxicate  the  brain, 
And  drinking  largely  sobers  us  again. 
Fired  at  first  sight  with  what  the  Muse  imparts, 
In  fearless  youth  we  tempt  the  heights  of  Arts, 
While,  from  the  bounded  level  of  our  mind. 
Short  views  we  take,  nor  see  the  lengths  behind; 
But  more  advanced,  behold  with  strange  surprise 
New  distant  scenes  of  endless  science  rise! 
So  pleased  at  first  the  towering  Alps  we  try, 
Mount  o'er  the  vales,  and  seem  to  tread  the  sky: 
Th'  eternal  snows  appear  already  past. 
And  the  first  clouds  and  mountains  seem  the  lastf 


A.  D.  1688-1744.  ALEXANDEPi    POPE.  219 

But,  those  attained,  we  tremble  to  survey 
The  growing  labors  of  the  lengthened  way; 
Th'  increasing  prospect  tires  our  wandering  eyes, 
Hills  peep  o'er  hills,  and  Alps  on  Alps  arise! 

Sound  an  Echo  to  the  Sense. 

'Tis  not  enough  no  harshness  gives  offence, 

The  sound  must  seem  an  Echo  to  the  sense: 

Soft  is  the  strain  when  Zephyr  gently  blows. 

And  the  smooth  stream  in  smoother  numbers  flows; 

But  when  loud  surges  lash  the  sounding  shore, 

The  hoarse,  rough  verse  should  like  the  torrent  roar. 

When  Ajax  strives  some  rock's  vast  weight  to  throw, 

The  line  too  labors,  and  the  words  move  slow: 

Not  so  Avhen  swift  Camilla  scours  the  plain. 

Flies  o'er  th'  unbending  corn,  and  skims  along  the  main- 


171-*    From  the  "  Essay  on  Man." 

The  Scale  of  Being. 

Far  as  Creation's  ample  range  extends, 
The  scale  of  sensual,  mental  powers  ascends: 
Mark  how  it  mounts  to  Man's  imperial  race. 
From  the  green  myriads  in  the  peopled  grass; 
What  modes  of  sight  betwixt  each  wide  extreme, 
The  mole's  dim  curtain,  and  the  lynx's  beam  : 
Of  smell,  the  headlong  lioness  between. 
And  hound  sagacious  on  the  tainted  green; 
Of  hearing,  from  the  life  that  fills  the  flood, 
To  that  which  warbles  through  the  vernal  wood; 
The  spider's  touch,  how  exquisitely  fine! 
Feels  at  each  thread,  and  lives  along  the  line  : 
In  the  nice  bee,  what  sense,  so  subtly  true. 
From  poisonous  herbs  extracts  the  healing  dew? 
How  Instinct  varies  in  the  grovelling  swine. 
Compared,  half-reasoning  elephant,  with  thine  1 
'Twixt  that,  and  Reason,  what  a  nice  barrier! 
Forever  separate,  yet  forever  near ! 
Remembrance  and  Reflection,  how  allied ; 
What  thin  partitions  Sense  from  Thought  divide  1 
And  Middle  natures,  how  they  long  to  join, 
Yet  never  pass  the  insuperable  line! 
Without  this  just  gradation,  could  they  be 
Subjected,  these  to  those,  or  all  to  thee? 
The  powers  of  all,  subdued  by  thee  alone, 
Is  not  thy  Reason  all  these  powers  in  one? 


220  ALEXANDER  POPE.  Qnxv.  XIV. 


Omnipresence  of  the  Deity. 

All  are  but  parts  of  one  stupendous  whole, 

Whose  body  Nature  is,  and  God  the  soul ; 

That,  changed  through  all,  and  yet  in  all  the  same, 

Great  in  the  earth,  as  in  th'  ethereal  frame. 

Warms  in  the  sun,  refreshes  in  the  breeze, 

Glows  in  the  stars,  and  blossoms  in  the  trees; 

Lives  through  all  life,  extends  through  all  extent, 

Spreads  undivided,  operates  unspent; 

Breathes  in  our  soul,  informs  our  mortal  part. 

As  full,  as  perfect,  in  a  hair  as  heart; 

As  full,  as  perfect,  in  vile  Man  that  mourns, 

As  the  rapt  Seraph  that  adores  and  burns; 

To  Him,  no  high,  no  low,  no  great,  no  small; 

He  fills,  He  bounds,  connects,  and  equals  all. 

Address  to  Bolingbroke. 

Come  then,  my  Friend,  my  Genius,  come  along; 

O  master  of  the  poet  and  the  song! 

And  while  the  Muse  now  stoops,  or  now  ascends, 

To  Man's  low  passions,  or  their  glorious  ends, 

Teach  me,  like  thee,  in  various  nature  wise, 

To  fall  with  dignity,  with  temper  rise ; 

Formed  by  thy  converse,  happily  to  steer 

From  grave  to  gay,  from  lively  to  severe ; 

Correct  with  spirit,  eloquent  with  ease, 

Intent  to  reason,  or  polite  to  please. 

O  I  while,  along  the  stream  of  time,  thy  name 

Expanded  flies,  and  gathers  all  its  fame. 

Say,  shall  my  little  bark  attendant  sail. 

Pursue  the  triumph,  and  partake  the  gale.? 

When  statesmen,  heroes,  kings,  in  dust  repose. 

Whose  sons  shall  blush  their  fathers  were  thy  foes, 

Shall  then  this  verse  to  future  age  pretend 

Thou  wert  my  guide,  philosopher,  and  friend? 

That,  urged  by  thee,  I  turned  the  tuneful  art 

From  sounds  to  things,  from  fancy  to  the  heart; 

For  wit's  false  mirror  held  up  nature's  light; 

Showed  erring  pride,  whatever  is,  is  right.'* 

That  reason,  passion,  answer  one  great  aim ; 

That  true  self-love  and  social  are  the  same; 

That  Virtue  only  makes  our  bliss  below; 

And  all  our  knowledge  is,  ourselves  to  know? 


A.  D.  1688-1744.  ALEXANDER  POPE.  221 

From  "The  Rape  of  the  Lock." 
1  72»   Description  of  Belinda. 

Not  with  more  glories,  in  th'  ethereal  plain, 

The  sun  first  rises  o'er  the  purpled  main, 

Than  issuing  forth,  the  rival  of  his  beams, 

Launched  on  the  bosom  of  the  silver  Thames. 

Fair  Njmphs  and  well-dressed  Youths  around  her  shone, 

But  every  eye  was  fixed  on  her  alone. 

On  her  white  breast  a  sparkling  cross  she  wore, 

Which  Jews  might  kiss,  and  Infidels  adore. 

Her  lively  looks  a  sprightly  mind  disclose, 

Quick  as  her  eyes,  and  as  unfixed  as  those. 

Favors  to  none,  to  all  she  smiles  extends; 

Oft  she  rejects,  but  never  once  offends. 

Bright  as  the  sun,  her  eyes  the  gazers  strike, 

And,  like  the  sun,  they  shine  on  all  alike. 

Yet  graceful  ease,  and  sweetness  void  of  pride, 

Might  hide  her  faults,  if  Belles  had  faults  to  hide; 

If  to  her  share  some  female  errors  fall, 

Look  on  her  face,  and  you'll  forget  them  all. 

This  Nymph,  to  the  destruction  of  mankind. 
Nourished  two  Locks,  which  graceful  hung  behind 
In  equal  curls,  and  well  conspired  to  deck, 
With  shining  ringlets,  the  smooth  ivory  neck. 
Love  in  these  labyrinths  his  slaves  detains, 
And  mighty  hearts  are  held  in  slender  chains. 
With  hairy  springes  we  the  birds  betray; 
Slight  lines  of  hair  surprise  the  finny  prey; 
Fair  tresses  man's  imperial  race  insnare, 
And  beauty  draws  us  with  a  single  hair. 


1  73,   The  Dying  Christian  to  his  Sgui-- 

Vital  spark  of  heavenly  flame, 
Quit,  O  quit,  this  mortal  frame ! 
Trembling,  hoping,  lingering,  flying  — 
O  the  pain,  the  bliss  of  dying! 
Cease,  fond  Nature,  cease  thy  strife, 
And  let  me  languish  into  life! 


'O" 


Hark!  they  whisper;  Angels  say, 
Sister  spirit,  come  away. 
What  is  this  absorbs  me  quite? 
Steals  my  senses,  shuts  my  sight.? 
Drowns  my  spirits,  draws  my  breath? 
Tell  me,  my  soul,  can  this  be  death? 


222  JONATHAN  SWIFT.  Chap.  XIV 

The  world  recedes  ;  it  disappears  ! 
Heaven  opens  on  mj  eyes !  mj  ears 

Witii  sounds  seraphic  ringi 
Lend,  lend  your  wings!  I  mount!  I  fly  I 
O  Grave!  where  is  thy  Victory? 

O  Death!  where  is  thy  Sting? 


Jonathan  Swift,     i 667-1 745.     (Manual,  pp.  273-381.) 

1  74:*     Country  Hospitality. 

Those  inferior  duties  of  life,  which  the  French  call  les  fetites  mor- 
ales, or  the  smaller  morals,  are  with  us  distinguished  by  the  name  of 
good  manners  or  breeding.  This  I  look  upon,  in  the  general  notion 
of  it,  to  be  a  sort  of  artificial  good  sense,  adapted  to  the  meanest 
capacities,  and  introduced  to  make  mankind  easy  in  their  commerce 
with  each  other.  Low  and  little  understandings,  without  some  rules 
of  this  kind,  would  be  perpetually  wandering  into  a  thousand  inde- 
cencies and  irregularities  in  behavior  5  and  in  their  ordinary  conver- 
sation, fall  into  the  same  boisterous  familiarities  that  one  observes 
among  them  where  intemperance  has  quite  taken  away  the  use  of 
their  reason.  In  other  instances  it  is  odd  to  consider,  that  for  want 
of  common  discretion,  the  very  end  of  good  breeding  is  wholly  per- 
verted ;  and  civility,  intended  to  make  us  easy,  is  employed  in  laying 
chains  and  fetters  upon  us,  in  debarring  us  of  our  wishes,  and  in 
crossing  our  most  reasonable  desires  and  inclinations. 

This  abuse  reigns  chiefly  in  the  country,  as  I  found  to  my  vexation 
when  I  was  last  there,  in  a  visit  I  made  to  a  neighbor  about  two  miles 
froin  my  cousin.  As  soon  as  I  entered  the  parlor,  they  put  me  into 
the  great  chair  that  stood  close  by  a  huge  fire,  and  kept  me  there  by 
force  until  I  was  alinost  stifled.  Then  a  boy  came  in  a  great  hurry  to 
pull  oflf  my  boots,  which  I  in  vain  opposed,  urging  that  I  must  return 
soon  after  dinner.  In  the  mean  time,  the  good  lady  whispered  her 
eldest  daughter,  and  slipped  a  key  into  her  hand ;  the  girl  returned 
instantly  with  a  beer  glass  half  full  of  aqua  mirabilis  and  syrup  of 
gillyflowers.  I  took  as  much  as  I  had  a  mind  for,  but  madam  vowed 
I  should  drink  it  off";  for  she  was  sure  it  would  do  me  good  after  com- 
ing out  of  the  cold  air;  and  I  was  forced  to  obey,  which  absolutely 
took  away  my  stomach.  When  dinner  came  in,  I  had  a  mind  to  sit  at 
a  distance  from  the  fire;  but  they  told  me  it  was  as  much  as  my  life 
was  worth,  and  sat  me  with  my  back  just  against  it.  Although  my 
appetite  was  quite  gone,  I  was  resolved  to  force  down  as  much  as  I 
could,  and  desired  the  leg  of  a  pullet.  "Indeed,  Mr.  Bickerstaff","  says 
the  lady,  "you  must  eat  a  wing,  to  oblige  me;  and  so  put  a  couple 
upon  my  plate.  I  was  persecuted  at  this  rate  during  the  whole  meal : 
as  often  as  I  called  for  small  beer,  the  master  tipped  the  wink,  and  the 
bcrvant  brought  me  a  brimmer  of  October. 


A.  D.  1667-1745.  JONATHAN  SWIFT.  223 

Some  time  after  dinner,  I  ordered  my  cousin's  man,  who  came  with 
me,  to  get  ready  tlie  horses;  but  it  was  resolved  I  should  not  stir  that 
night;  and  when  I  seemed  pretty  much  bent  upon  going,  they  ordered 
the  stable  door  to  be  locked,  and  the  children  hid  my  cloak  and  boots. 
The  next  question  was,  What  would  I  have  for  supper?  I  said,  I  never 
eat  anything  at  night;  but  was  at  last,  in  my  own  defence,  obliged  to 
name  the  first  thing  that  came  into  my  head.  After  three  hours,  spent 
chiefly  in  apologies  for  my  entertainment,  insinuating  to  me,  "That 
this  was  the  worst  time  of  the  year  for  provisions  ;  that  they  were  at  a 
great  distance  from  any  market;  that  they  were  afraid  I  should  be 
starved ;  and  that  they  knew  they  kept  me  to  my  loss ;  "  the  lady 
went,  and  left  me  to  her  husband ;  for  they  took  special  care  I  should 
never  be  alone.  As  soon  as  her  back  was  turned,  the  little  misses  ran 
backward  and  forward  every  moment,  and  constantly  as  they  came  in, 
or  went  out,  made  a  courtesy  directly  at  me,  which,  in  good  manners, 
I  was  forced  to  return  with  a  bow,  and  "your  humble  servant,  pretty 
miss."  Exactly  at  eight,  the  mother  came  up,  and  discovered,  hy  the 
redness  of  her  face,  that  supper  was  not  far  off.  It  was  twice  as  large 
as  the  dinner,  and  my  persecution  doubled  in  proportion.  I  desired 
at  my  usual  hour  to  go  to  my  repose,  and  was  conducted  to  my  cham- 
ber by  the  gentleman,  his  lady,  and  the  whole  train  of  children.  They 
importuned  me  to  drink  something  before  I  went  to  bed ;  and,  upon 
my  refusing,  at  last  left  a  bottle  of  stingo,  as  they  call  it,  for  fear  I 
should  wake  and  be  thirsty  in  the  night. 

I  was  forced  in  the  morning  to  rise  and  dress  myself  in  the  dark,  be- 
cause they  would  not  suffer  my  kinsman's  servant  to  disturb  me  at  the 
hour  I  desired  to  be  called.  I  was  now  resolved  to  break  through  all 
measures  to  get  away ;  and,  after  sitting  down  to  a  monstrous  break- 
fast of  cold  beef,  mutton,  neat's  tongues,  venison  pasty,  and  stale  beer, 
took  leave  of  the  familj'.  But  the  gentleman  would  needs  see  me  part 
of  the  way,  and  carry  me  a  short  cut  through  his  own  ground,  which 
he  told  me  would  save  half  a  mile's  riding.  This  last  piece  of  civility 
had  like  to  have  cost  me  dear,  being  once  or  twice  in  danger  of  my 
neck  by  leaping  over  his  ditches,  and  at  last  forced  to  alight  in  the 
dirt,  when  my  horse,  having  slipped  his  bridle,  ran  away,  and  took  us 
up  more  than  an  hour  to  recover  him  again. 


From  "  Gulliver's  Travels." 

1  7S,   The  Academy  of  Legado. 

In  the  school  of  political  projectors  I  was  but  ill  entertained ;  the 
professors  appearing,  in  my  judginent,  wholly  out  of  their  senses, 
which  is  a  scene  that  never  fails  to  make  me  melancholy.  These  un- 
happy people  were  proposing  schemes  for  persuading  monarchs  to 
choose  favorites  upon  the  scores  of  their  wisdom,  capacity,  and  virtue; 
of  leachin^^  ministers  to  consult  the  public  good;  of  rewarding  merit. 


224  JONATHAN  SWIFT.  Chap.  XIV 

great  abilities,  and  eminent  services ;  of  instructing  princes  to  know 
their  true  interest,  hy  placing  it  on  the  same  foundation  with  that 
of  their  people;  of  choosing  for  employments  persons  qualified  to 
exercise  them ;  with  many  other  wild,  impossible  chimeras,  that  never 
entered  before  into  the  heart  of  man  to  conceive;  and  confirmed  in 
me  the  old  observation,  "That  there  is  nothing  so  extravagant  and 
irrational,  which  some  philosophers  have  not  maintained  for  truth." 

I  heard  a  very  warm  debate  between  two  professors,  about  the  most 
commodious  and  effectual  ways  and  means  of  raising  money  without 
grieving  the  subject.  The  first  affirmed,  "Thejustest  method  would 
be,  to  lay  a  certain  tax  upon  vices  and  folly ;  and  the  sum  fixed  upon 
every  man  to  be  rated,  after  the  fairest  manner,  by  a  jury  of  his  neigh- 
bors." The  second  was  of  an  opinion  directly  contrary:  "To  tax 
those  qualities  of  body  and  mind  for  which  men  chiefly  value  therm- 
selves,  the  rate  to  be  more  or  less  according  to  the  degrees  of  excel- 
ling, the  decision  whereof  should  be  left  entirely  to  their  own  breast." 
The  highest  tax  was  upon  men  who  are  the  greatest  favorites  of  the 
other  sex.  Wit,  valor,  and  politeness  were  likewise  proposed  to  be 
largely  taxed,  and  collected  in  the  same  manner,  by  every  person's 
giving  his  own  word  for  the  quantum  of  what  he  possessed.  But,  as 
to  honor,  justice,  wisdom,  and  learning,  they  should  not  be  taxed  at 
all,  because  they  are  qualifications  of  so  singular  a  kind,  that  no  man 
will  either  allow  them  in  his  neighbor,  or  value  them  in  himself. 

The  women  were  proposed  to  be  taxed  according  to  their  beauty 
and  skill  in  dressing,  wherein  they  had  the  same  privilege  with  the 
men,  to  be  determined  by  their  own  judgment.  But  constancy,  chas- 
titj',  good  sense,  and  good  nature,  were  not  rated,  because  they  would 
not  bear  the  charge  of  collecting. 


He  gave  it  for  his  opinion  that  whoever  could  make  two  ears  of 
corn  or  two  blades  of  grass  grow  where  only  one  grew  before,  would 
deserve  better  of  his  mankind,  and  do  more  essential  service  to  his 
country,  than  this  whole  race  of  politicians  put  together.  —  Idi'd. 


1  70'»    Thoughts  on  Various  Subjects. 

When  a  true  genius  appeareth  in  the  world,  you  may  know  him 
by  this  infallible  sign,  that  the  dunces  are  all  in  confederacy  against 
him. 

It  is  in  disputes  as  in  armies,  where  the  weaker  side  setteth  up  false 
lights,  and  maketh  a  great  noise,  that  the  enemy  may  believe  them  to 
be  more  numerous  and  strong  than  they  really  are. 

I  have  known  some  men  possessed  of  good  qualities,  which  were 
very  serviceable  to  others,  but  useless  to  themselves;  like  a  sundial 
on  the  front  of  a  house,  to  inform  the  neighbors  and  passengers,  but 
lot  the  owner  within. 


A.  D.  1664-1721.  MATTHEW  PRIOR.  225 

The  power  of  fortune  is  confessed  only  by  the  miserable,  for  the 
happy  impute  all  their  success  to  prudence  and  merit. 

Ambition  often  puts  men  upon  doing  the  meanest  offices :  so, 
climbing  is  performed  in  the  same  posture  with  creeping. 

Censure  is  the  tax  a  man  payeth  to  the  public  for  being  eminent. 

No  wise  man  ever  wished  to  be  younger. 

An  idle  reason  lessens  the  weight  of  the  good  ones  you  gave  before. 

Complaint  is  the  largest  tribute  heaven-  receives,  and  the  sincerest 
part  of  our  devotion. 

To  be  vain  is  rather  a  mark  of  humility  than  pride.  Vain  men 
delight  in  telling  what  honors  have  been  done  them,  what  great  com- 
pany they  have  kept,  and  the  like;  by  which  they  plainly  confess  that 
these  honors  were  more  than  their  due,  and  such  as  their  friends 
would  not  believe  if  they  had  not  been  told :  whereas  a  man  truly 
proud  thinks  the  greatest  honors  below  his  merit,  and  consequently 
scorns  to  boast.  I  therefore  deliver  it  as  a  maxim,  that  whoever  de- 
sires the  character  of  a  proud  man,  ought  to  conceal  his  vanity. 


Matthew  Prior.     1664-1721.     (Manual,  p.  283.) 

177*    The  Chameleon. 

As  the  Chameleon  who  is  known 

To  have  no  colors  of  his  own ; 

But  borrows  from  his  neighbor's  hue 

His  white  or  black,  his  green  or  blue; 

And  struts  as  much  in  ready  light, 

Which  credit  gives  him  upon  sight, 

As  if  the  rainbow  were  in  tail 

Settled  on  him  and  his  heirs  male; 

So  the  young  'squire,  when  first  he  comes 

From  covmtry  school  to  Will's  or  Tom's, 

And  equally,  in  truth,  is  fit 

To  be  a  statesman,  or  a  wit; 

Without  one  notion  of  his  own, 

He  saunters  wildly  up  and  down. 

Till  some  acquaintance,  good  or  bad, 

Takes  notice  of  a  staring  lad. 

Admits  him  in  among  the  gang; 

They  jest,  reply,  dispute,  harangue  : 

He  acts  and  talks,  as  they  befriend  him, 

Smeared  with  the  colors  which  they  lend  him. 

Thus,  merely  as  his  fortune  chances, 
His  merit  or  his  vice  advances. 

If  haply  he  the  sect  pursues, 
That  read  and  comment  upon  ne\vs; 

15 


226  JOHN  OAY.  Chap  XIV, 

He  takes  up  their  mj'sterious  face ; 
He  drinks  his  coffee  without  lace; 
This  week  his  mimic  tongue  runs  o'er 
What  they  have  said  the  week  before ; 
His  wisdom  sets  all  Europe  riglit, 
And  teaches  Mai-lborough  when  to  fight. 

Or  if  it  be  his  fate  to  meet 
V/ith  folks. who  have  more  wealth  than  wit; 
He  loves  cheap  port,  and  double  bub; 
And  settles  in  the  Hum-drum  club  : 
He  learns  how  stocks  will  fall  or  rise; 
Holds  poverty  the  greatest  vice; 
Thinks  wit  the  bane  of  conversation, 
And  says  that  learning  spoils  a  nation. 

But  if,  at  first,  he  minds  his  hits, 
And  drinks  champaign  among  the  wits; 
Five  deep  he  toasts  the  towering  lasses ; 
Repeats  you  verses  wrote  on  glasses ; 
Is  in  the  chair;  prescribes  the  law; 
And  lies  with  those  he  never  saw. 


John  Gay.      1688-1733.     (Manual,  p.  283.) 

1  7 S,   The  Hare  and  many  Friends. 

Friendship,  like  love,  is  but  a  name, 
Unless  to  one  you  stint  the  flame. 
The  child  whom  many  fathers  share, 
Hath  seldom  known  a  father's  care. 
'Tis  thus  in  friendships ;  who  depend 
On  many,  rarely  find  a  friend. 

A  Hare  who,  in  a  civil  waj'^. 
Complied  with  everything,  like  Gay, 
Was  known  to  all  the  bestial  train 
Who  hunt  the  wood,  or  graze  the  plain; 
Her  care  was  never  to  offend. 
And  every  creature  was  her  friend. 

As  forth  she  went  at  early  dawn. 
To  taste  the  dew-besprinkled  lawn, 
Behind  she  hears  the  hunter's  cries. 
And  from  the  deep-mouthed  thunder  flies. 
She  starts,  she  stops,  she  pants  for  breath ; 
She  hears  the  near  approach  of  death  : 
She  doubles  to  mislead  the  hound, 
And  measures  back  her  mazy  ground ; 
Till,  fainting,  in  the  public  way, 


A..  D.  LGHi-1732.  JORS    GAY.  227 

Kalf  dead  with  fear,  she  gasping  lay. 
What  transport  in  her  bosom  grew, 
When  first  the  horse  appeared  in  view! 

''Let  me,"  says  she,  "your  back  asce.id, 
And  owe  my  safety  to  a  friend. 
You  know  my  feet  betray  my  flight ; 
To  friendship  every  burden's  light." 

The  horse  replied,  "  Poor  honest  Puss, 
It  grieves  my  heart  to  see  you  thus  : 
Be  comforted,  relief  is. near, 
For  all  your  friends  are  in  the  rear." 
She  next  the  stately  bull  implored ; 
And  thus  replied  the  mighty  lord ; 

"  Since  every  beast  alive  can  tell 
That  I  sincerely  wish  you  well, 
I  may,  without  offence,  pretend 
To  take  the  freedom  of  a  friend. 
Love  calls  me  hence;  a  favorite  cow 
Expects  me  near  yon  barley-mow; 
And,  where  a  lady's  in  the  case, 
You  know  all  other  things  give  place. 
To  leave  you  thus  would  seem  unkind: 
But  see,  the  goat  is  just  behind." 

The  goat  remarked  her  pulse  was  high, 
Ker  languid  head,  her  heavy  eye  : 
"  My  back,"  says  she,  "  may  do  you  harm  : 
The  sheep's  at  hand,  and  wool  is  warm." 

The  sheep  was  feeble,  and  complained, 
"  His  sides  a  load  of  wool  sustained ;  " 
Said  he  was  slow,  confessed  his  fears, 
"  For  hounds  eat  sheep  as  well  as  hares." 

She  now  the  trotting  calf  addressed, 
'  To  save  from  death  a  friend  distressed : 
"  Shall  I,"  says  he,  "  of  tender  age, 
In  this  important  case  engage.? 
Older  and  abler  passed  you  by; 
How  strong  are  those!  how  weak  am  II 
Should  I  presume  to  bear  you  hence, 
Those  friends  of  mine  may  take  offence. 
Excuse  me,  then  ;  you  know  my  heart; 
But  dearest  friends,  alas  !  must  part. 
How  shall  we  all  lament!  adieu; 
For  see,  the  hounds  are  just  in  view.*' 


228  THOMAS  PARNELL.  Chap.  XIV. 

Thomas  Parnell.     1679-171S.     (Manual,  p.  285.) 

1 7i)»    Hymn  to  Contentment. 

Lovely,  lasting  peace  of  mind  ! 
Sweet  delight  of  human  kind  ! 
Heavenly  born,  and  bred  on  high, 
To  crown  the  favorites  of  the  sky 
With  more  of  happiness  below, 
Than  victors  in  a  triumph  know! 
Whither,  O  whither  art  thou  fled, 
To  lay  thy  meek  contented  head ; 
What  happy  region  dost  thou  please 
To  make  the  seat  of  calms  and  ease  I 

Ambition  searches  all  its  sphere 
Of  pomp  and  state,  to  meet  thee  there. 
Increasing  avarice  would  find 
Thy  presence  in  its  gold  enshrined. 
The  bold  adventurer  ploughs  his  way 
Through  rocks  airjidst  the  foaming  ser^ 
To  gain  thy  love ;  and  then  perceives 
Thou  wert  not  in  the  rocks  and  waves. 
The  silent  heart,  which  grief  assails, 
Treads  soft  and  lonesome  o'er  the  vales. 
Sees  daisies  open,  rivers  run, 
And  seeks  (as  I  have  vainly  done) 
Amusing  thought;  but  learns  to  know 
That  solitude's  the  nurse  of  woe. 
No  real  happiness  is  found 
In  trailing  purple  o'er  the  ground  : 
Or  in  a  soul  exalted  high, 
To  range  the  circuit  of  the  sky. 
Converse  with  stars  above,  and  know 
All  nature  in  its  forms  below; 
The  rest  it  seeks,  in  seeking  dies. 
And  doubts  at  last,  for  knowledge,  rise. 

Lovely,  lasting  peace,  appear; 
This  world  itself,  if  thou  art  here, 
Is  once  again  with  Eden  blest. 
And  man  contains  it  in  his  breast. 

'Twas  thus,  as  under  shade  I  stood, 
I  sung  my  wishes  to  the  wood, 
And,  lost  in  thought,  no  more  perceived 
The  branches  whisper  as  they  waved : 
It  seemed  as  all  the  quiet  place 
Confessed  the  presence  of  his  grace. 

When  thus  she  spoke  —  Go  rule  thy  will, 


A.  D.  1681-1765.  EDWABD    YOUNG.  229 

Bid  thy  wild  passions  all  be  still, 
Know  God  —  and  bring  thy  heart  to  know 
The  joys  which  from  religion  flow  : 
Then  every  grace  shall  prove  its  guest, 
And  I'll  be  there  to  crown  the  rest. 

Oh  !  by  yonder  mossy  seat, 
In  my  hours  of  sweet  retreat, 
Might  I  thus  my  soul  employ. 
With  sense  of  gratitude  and  joy : 
Raised  as  ancient  prophets  were. 
In  heavenly  vision,  praise,  and  prayer; 
Pleasing  all  men,  hurting  none. 
Pleased  and  blessed  with  God  alone  : 
Then  while  the  gardens  take  my  sight, 
With  all  the  colors  of  delight; 
While  silver  waters  glide  along. 
To  please  my  ear,  and  court  my  song : 
I'll  lift  my  voice,  and  tune  my  string. 
And  thee,  great  source  of  nature,  sing. 

The  sun  that  walks  his  airy  way, 
To  light  the  world,  and  give  the  day; 
The  moon  that  shines  with  borrowed  light ; 
The  stars  that  gild  the  gloomy  night; 
The  seas  that  roll  unnumbered  waves ; 
The  wood  that  spreads  its  shady  leaves; 
The  field  whose  ears  conceal  the  grain. 
The  yellow  treasure  of  the  plain ; 
All  of  these,  and  all  I  see. 
Should  be  sung,  and  sung  by  me  : 
They  speak  their  Maker  as  they  can, 
But  want  and  ask  the  tongue  of  man. 

Go  search  among  your  idle  dreams, 
Your  busy  or  your  vain  extremes ; 
And  find  a  life  of  equal  bliss, 
Or  own  the  next  begun  in  this. 


Edward  Young.     1681-1765.     (Manual,  p.  285.) 

From  the  "Night  Thoughts." 

ISO,    Procrastination. 

Be  wise  to-day  :  'tis  madness  to  defer; 
Next  day  the  fatal  precedent  will  plead ; 
Thus  on,  till  wisdom  is  pushed  out  of  life. 
Procrasti)iatio7i  is  the  thief  of  time; 
Year  after  year  it  steals  till  all  are  fled, 
And  to  the  mercies  of  a  moment  leaves 


230  BISHOP  BUTLER.  Chap.  XIV. 

The  vast  concerns  of  an  eternal  scene. 

If  not  so  frequent,  would  not  this  be  strange? 

That  'tis  so  frequent,  this  is  stranger  still. 

Of  man's  miraculous  mistakes,  this  bears 
The  palm,  "  That  all  men  are  about  to  live,"  — 
Forever  on  the  brink  of  being  born. 
All  pay  themselves  the  compliment  to  think 
Tkey  one  day  shall  not  drivel :  and  their  pride 
On  this  reversion  takes  up  ready  praise ; 
At  least,  their  own  ;  their  future  selves  applaud. 
How  excellent  thai  life  —  they  ne' er  will  lead ! 
Time  lodged  in  their  o-ajti  hands  is  folly's  vails; 
That  lodged  in  fate's,  to  wisdom  they  consign; 
The  thing  they  can't  but  purpose,  they  postpone. 
'Tis  not  in  folly,  not  to  scorn  a  fool ; 
And  scarce  in  human  -wisdom,  to  do  more. 
All  promise  is  poor  dilatory  man, 
And  that  through  every  stage  :  when  young,  indeed, 
In  full  content  we,  sometimes,  nobly  rest, 
Unanxious  for  ourselves  ;  and  only  wish, 
As  duteous  sons,  our  fathers  were  more  wise. 
At  thirty  man  suspects  himself  a  fool ; 
Knows  it  nt  forty,  and  reforms  his  plan; 
hX  fifty  chides  his  infamous  delay. 
Pushes  his  prudent  purpose  to  resolve  ; 
In  all  the  magnanimity  of  thought 
Resolves  ;  and  re-resolves  ;  then,  dies  the  same. 

And  why.''     Because  he  thinks  himself  immortal. 
All  men  think  all  men  mortal,  but  themselves; 
Themselves,  when  some  alarming  shock  of  fate 
Strikes  through  their  wounded  hearts  the  sudden  dread. 
But  their  hearts  wounded,  like  the  wounded  air, 
Soon  close,  where,  past  the  shaft,  no  trace  is  found. 
As  from  the  wing,  no  scar  the  sky  retains ; 
The  parted  wave  no  furrow  from  the  keel ;  — 
So  dies  in  human  hearts  the  thought  of  death. 
E'en  with  the  tender  tear  which  Nature  sheds 
O'er  those  we  love,  —  we  drop  it  in  their  grave. 


Bishop  Butler.     1692-1753.     (Manual,  p.  343.) 
From  "The  Analogy."    Chap.  VIII. 

181  •   Evidence  for  Christianity  sufficient. 

It  is  most  readily  acknowledged  that  the  foregoing  treatise  is  by  no 
means  satisfactory;  very  far  from  it;  but  so  would  any  natural  insti- 
tution of  life  appear,   if  reduced   into  a  system,  together  with  its  evi- 


A.  1).  1692-1752.  BISHOP  BUTLER.  231 

deuce.  Leaving  religion  out  of  the  case,  men  aie  divided  in  their 
opinions,  whether  our  pleasures  overbalance  our  pains;  and  whether 
it  be,  or  be  not,  eligible  to  live  in  this  world.  And  were  all  such 
controversies  settled,  which,  perhaps,  in  speculation,  would  be  found 
involved  in  great  difficulties ;  and  were  it  determined  upon  the  evi- 
dence of  reason,  as  nature  has  determined  it  to  our  hands,  that  life  is 
to  be  preserved;  jet  still,  the  rules  that  God  has  been  pleased  to 
afford  us,  for  escaping  the  miseries  of  it,  and  obtaining  its  satisfac- 
tions, the  rules,  for  instance,  of  preserving  health,  and  recovering  it 
when  lost,  are  not  only  fallible  and  precarious,  but  very  far  from 
being  exact.  Nor  are  we  informed  by  natuie,  in  future  contingencies 
and  accidents,  so  as  to  render  it  at  all  certain,  what  is  the  best  method 
of  managing  our  affairs.  What  will  be  the  success  of  our  temporal 
pursuits,  in  the  common  sense  of  the  word  success,  is  highly  doubtful. 
And  what  will  be  the  success  of  thein  in  the  proper  sense  of  the  word ; 
i.  e.,  what  happiness  or  enjoyment  we  shall  obtain  by  them,  is  doubt- 
ful in  a  much  higher  degree.  Indeed,  the  unsatisfactory  nature  of  the 
evidence,  with  which  we  are  obliged  to  take  up  in  the  daily  course  of 
life,  is  scarce  to  be  expressed.  Yet  men  do  not  throw  away  life,  or 
disregard  the  interests  of  it,  upon  account  of  this  doubtfulness.  The 
evidence  of  religion  then  being  admitted  real,  those  who  object  against 
it,  as  not  satisfactory,  i.  e.,  as  not  being  what  they  wish  it,  plainly 
forget  the  very  condition  of  our  being;  for  satisfaction,  in  this  sense, 
does  not  belong  to  such  a  creature  as  man.  And,  which  is  more  ma- 
terial, th.Qy  forget  also  the  very  nature  of  religion.  For,  religion  pre- 
supposes, in  all  those  who  will  embrace  it,  a  certain  degree  of  integ- 
rity and  honesty;  which  it  was  intended  to  try  whether  men  have  or 
not,  and  to  exercise  in  such  as  have  it,  in  order  to  its  improvement. 
Religion  presupposes  this  as  much,  and  in  the  same  sense,  as  speak- 
ing to  a  man  presupposes  that  he  understands  the  language  in  which 
you  speak;  or  as  warning  a  man  of  any  danger  presupposes  that  he 
hath  such  a  regard  to  himself  as  that  he  will  endeavor  to  avoid  it. 
And  therefore  the  question  is  not  at  all,  Whether  the  evidence  of  re- 
ligion be  satisfactory;  but  Whether  it  be,  in  reason,  sufficient  to  prove 
and  discipline  that  virtue,  which  it  presupposes.  Now  the  evidence 
of  it  is  fully  sufficient  for  all  these  purposes  of  probation ;  how  far 
soever  it  is  from  being  satisfactory,  as  to  the  purposes  of  curiosity,  or 
any  other :  and  indeed  it  answers  the  purposes  of  the  former  in  several 
respects,  which  it  would  not  do  if  it  were  as  overbearing  as  is  required. 


232  JOSEPH  ADDISON.  Chap.  XV. 


CHAPTER    XV. 

THE    ESSAYISTS. 


Joseph  Addison,     i 672-1 719.     (Manual,  pp.  289-296.) 

From  "The  Tatler." 

lS2m   The  Political  Upholsterer. 

There  lived  some  years  since,  within  my  neighborhood,  a  very 
grave  person,  an  upholsterer,  who  seemed  a  man  of  more  than  ordi- 
nary application  to  business.  He  was  a  very  early  riser,  and  was 
often  abroad  two  or  three  hours  before  any  of  his  neighbors.  He  had 
a  particular  carefulness  in  the  knitting  of  his  brows,  and  a  kind  of 
impatience  in  all  his  motions,  that  plainly  discovered  he  was  always 
intent  on  matters  of  importance.  Upon  my  inquiry  into  his  life  and 
conversation,  I  found  him  to  be  the  greatest  newsmonger  in  our 
quarter;  that  he  rose  before  day  to  read  the  "  Postman,"  and  that  he 
v/ould  take  two  or  three  turns  to  the  other  end  of  the  town  before  his 
neighbors  were  up,  to  see  if  there  were  any  Dutch  mails  come  in. 
He  had  a  wife  and  several  children,  but  was  much  more  inquisitive 
to  know  what  passed  in  Poland  than  in  his  own  family,  and  was  in 
greater  pain  and  anxiety  of  inind  for  King  Augustus's  welfare  than 
that  of  his  nearest  relations.  He  looked  extremely  thin  in  a  dearth 
of  news,  and  never  enjoyed  himself  in  a  westerly  wind.  This  in- 
defatigable kind  of  life  was  the  ruin  of  his  shop ;  for  about  the  time 
that  his  favorite  prince  left  the  crown  of  Poland,  he  broke  and  dis- 
appeared. 

This  man  and  his  affairs  had  been  long  out  of  my  mind,  till,  about 
three  days  ago,  as  I  was  walking  in  St.  James's  Park,  I  heard  some- 
body at  a  distance  hemming  after  me;  and  who  should  it  be  but  my 
old  neighbor  the  upholsterer?  I  saw  he  was  reduced  to  extreme  pov- 
erty by  certain  shabby  superfluities  in  his  dress;  for,  notwithstanding 
that  it  was  a  very  sultry  day  for  the  time  of  the  year,  he  wore  a  loose 
great-coat  and  a  muff,  with  a  long  campaign  wig  out  of  curl,  to  which 
he  had  added  the  ornament  of  a  pair  of  black  garters,  buckled  under 
the  knee.  Upon  his  coming  up  to  me  I  was  going  to  inquire  into  his 
present  circumstances,  but  was  prevented  by  his  asking  me,  with  a 
whisper,  whether  the  last  letters  brought  any  accounts  that  one  might 
rely  upon  from  Bender?     I  told  him  none  that  I  heard  of,  and  asked 


A.  D.  1672-1719  JOSEPH  ADDISON.  233 

him  whether  he  had  yet  married  his  eldest  daughter?  He  told  me  no. 
But  pray,  says  he,  tell  me  sincerely  what  are  your  thoughts  of  the 
kin£f  of  Sweden?  For  though  his  wife  and  children  were  starving,  I 
found  hi-s  chief  concern  at  present  was  for  this  great  monarch.  I  told 
him  that  I  looked  upon  him  as  one  of  the  first  heroes  of  the  age. 
But  pray,  says  he,  do  you  think  there  is  anything  in  the  story  of  his 
wound?  And  finding  me  surprised  at  the  question, — Nay,  says  he, 
1  only  propose  it  to  you.  I  answered  that  I  thought  there  was  no 
reason  to  doubt  of  it.  But  why  in  the  heel,  says  he,  more  than  in 
any  other  part  of  the  body!  Because,  said,  I,  the  bullet  chanced  to 
light  there.         *         *         *         ♦ 

We  were  now  got  to  the  upper  end  of  the  Mall,  where  were  three  or 
four  very  odd  fellows  sitting  together  upon  the  bench.  These,  I  found, 
were  all  of  them  politicians,  who  used  to  sun  themselves  in  that  place 
every  day  about  dinner-time.  Observing  them  to  be  curiosities  in 
their  kind,  and  my  friend's  acquaintance,  I  sat  down  among  them. 
The  chief  politician  of  the  bench  was  a  great  asserter  of  paradoxes. 
He  told  us,  with  a  seeming  concern,  that  by  some  news  he  had  lately 
read  from  Muscovy,  it  appeared  to  him  that  there  was  a  storm  gather- 
ing in  the  Black  Sea,  which  might  in  time  do  hurt  to  the  naval  forces 
of  this  nation.  To  this  he  added,  that  for  his  part,  he  could  not  wish 
to  see  the  Turk  driven  out  of  Europe,  which  he  believed  could  not  but 
be  prejudicial  to  our  woollen  manufacture.  He  then  told  us,  that  he 
looked  upon  those  extraordinary  revoh;tions,  which  had  lately  hap- 
pened in  those  parts  of  the  world,  to  have  risen  from  two  persons  who 
were  not  much  talked  of;  and  those,  says  he,  are  Prince  Menzikofi" 
and  the  Duchess  of  Mirandola.  He  backed  his  assertions  with  so 
many  broken  hints,  and  such  a  show  of  depth  and  wisdom,  that  we 
gave  ourselves  up  to  his  opinions.         *         *         *         * 

When  we  had  fully  discussed  this  point,  my  friend  the  upholsterer 
began  to  exert  himself  upon  the  present  negotiations  of  peace,  in 
which  he  deposed  princes,  settled  the  bounds  of  kingdoms,  and  bal- 
anced the  power  of  Europe,  with  great  justice  and  impartiality. 

I  at  length  took  my  leave  of  the  company,  and  was  going  away ; 
but  had  not  gone  thirty  yards,  before  the  upholsterer  hemmed  again 
after  me.  Upon  his  advancing  towards  me,  with  a  whisper,  I  ex- 
pected to  hear  some  secret  piece  of  news,  which  he  had  not  thought 
fit  to  communicate  on  the  bench;  but,  instead  of  that,  he  desired  me 
in  my  ear  to  lend  him  half  a  crown.  In  compassion  to  so  needy  a 
statesman,  and  to  dissipate  the  confusion  I  found  he  was  in,  I  told 
him,  if  he  pleased,  I  would  give  him  five  shillings,  to  receive  five 
pounds  of  him  when  the  great  Turk  was  driven  out  of  Constantino- 
ple;  which  he  very  readily  accepted,  but  not  before  he  had  laid  down 
to  me  the  impossibility  of  such  an  event,  as  the  aff"airs  of  Europe 
now  stand. 


234  JOSEPH  ADDISON.  Chap.  XV. 

From  "The  Spectator." 
IS 3,   The  Vision  of  Mirza. 

On  the  fifth  day  of  the  moon,  which,  according  to  the  custom  of  mj 
forefathers,  I  always  keep  holy,  after  having  washed  myself,  and 
offered  up  my  morning  devotions,  I  ascended  the  high  hills  of  Bagdad, 
in  order  to  pass  the  rest  of  the  day  in  meditation  and  prayer.  As  I 
was  here  refreshing  myself  on  the  tops  of  the  mountains,  I  fell  into 
a  profound  contemplation  on  the  vanity  of  human  life ;  and  passing 
from  one  thought  to  another,  surely,  said  I,  man  is  but  a  shadow, 
and  life  a  dream.  Whilst  I  was  thus  musing,  I  cast  my  eyes  towards 
the  summit  of  a  rock  that  was  not  far  from  me,  where  I  discovered 
one  in  the  habit  of  a  shepherd,  but  who  was  in  reality  a  being  of 
superior  nature.  I  drew  near  with  profound  reverence,  and  fell  down 
at  his  feet.  The  genius  smiled  upon  me  with  a  look  of  compassion 
and  affability,  that  familiarized  him  to  my  imagination,  and  at  once 
dispelled  all  the  fears  and  apprehensions  with  which  I  approached 
him.  He  lifted  me  from  the  ground,  and  taking  me  by  the  hand, 
"  Mirza,"  said  he,  "  I  have  heard  thee  in  thy  soliloquies;  follow  me." 

He  then  led  me  to  the  highest  pinnacle  of  the  rock;  and  placing  me 
on  the  top  of  it,  "  Cast  thy  eyes  eastward,"  said  he,  "  and  tell  me  what 
thou  seest."  "  I  see,"  said  I,  "  a  huge  valley,  and  a  prodigious  tide 
of  water  rolling  through  it."  "  The  valley  that  thou  seest,"  said  he, 
"  is  the  vale  of  misery;  and  the  tide  of  water  that  thou  seest,  is  part 
of  the  great  tide  of  eternity."  "  What  is  the  reason,"  said  I,  "  that 
the  tide  I  see  rises  out  of  a  thick  mist  at  one  end,  and  again  loses  it- 
self in  a  thick  mist  at  the  other.?"  "  What  thou  seest,"  said"  he,  "  is 
that  portion  of  eternity  which  is  called  time  measured  out  by  the  sun, 
and  reaching  from  the  beginning  of  the  world  to  its  consummation. 
Examine  now,"  said  he,  "this  sea  that  is  bounded  with  darkness  at 
both  ends,  and  tell  me  what  thou  discoverest  in  it  "  "  I  see  a  bridge," 
said  I,  "  standing  in  the  midst  of  the  tide."  "The  bridge  thou  seest," 
said  he,  "is  human  life;  consider  it  attentivelj'."  Upon  a  more 
leisurely  survey  of  it,  I  found  that  it  consisted  of  three  score  and  ten 
entire  arches,  with  several  broken  arches,  which,  added  to  those  that 
were  entire,  made  up  the  number  about  a  hundred.  As  I  was  count- 
ing the  arches,  the  genius  told  me  that  this  bridge  consisted  at  first 
of  a  thousand ;  but  that  a  great  flood  swept  away  the  rest,  and  left  the 
bridge  in  the  ruinous  condition  I  now  beheld  it.  "  But  tell  me 
further,"  said  he,  "what  thou  discoverest  on  it."  "  I  see  multitudes 
of  people  passing  over  it,"  said  I,  "  and  a  black  cloud  hanging  on 
each  end  of  it."  As  I  looked  moi-e  attentively,  I  saw  several  of  the 
passengers  dropping  through  the  bridge  into  the  great  tide  that  flowed 
underneath  it;  and,  upon  further  examination,  perceived  there  were 
innumerable  trap-doors  that  lay  concealed  in  the  bridge,  which  the 
passengers  no  sooner  trod  upon,  than  they  fell  through  them  into  the 
tide,   and  immediately  disappeared.     Thesre   hidden   pitfalls  were  ^c•t 


A.  D.  1672-1719.  JOSEPH  ADDISON.  235 

verv  thick  at  the  entrance  of  the  bridge,  so  that  throngs  of  people  no 
sooner  broke  through  the  cloud  than  many  fell  into  them.  They  grev? 
thinner  towards  the  middle,  but  multiplied  and  lay  closer  together 
towards  the  end  of  the  arches  that  were  entire.  There  were  indeed 
some  persons,  but  their  number  was  very  small,  that  continued  a  kim^ 
of  hobbling  march  on  the  broken  arches,  but  fell  through  one  aftei 
another,  being  quite  tired  and  spent  with  so  long  a  walk. 

I  passed  some  time  in  the  contemplation  of  this  wonderful  structure, 
and  the  great  variety  of  objects  which  it  presented.  My  heart  was 
filled  with  a  deep  melancholy,  to  see  several  dropping  unexpectedly  in 
the  midst  of  mirth  and  jollity,  and  catching  at  everything  that  stood  by 
them,  to  save  themselves.  Some  were  looking  up  towards  the  heavens 
in  a  thoughtful  posture,  and,  in  the  midst  of  a  speculation,  stumbled 
and  fell  out  of  sight.  Multitudes  were  very  busy  in  the  pursuit  of 
bubbles,  that  glittered  in  their  eyes,  and  danced  before  them ;  but 
often,  when  they  thought  themselves  within  the  reach  of  them,  their 
footing  failed,  and  down  they  sunk.  In  this  confusion  of  objects,  I 
observed  some  with  scimitars  in  their  hands,  and  others  with  urinals, 
who  ran  to  and  fro  upon  the  bridge,  thrusting  several  persons  on  trap- 
doors which  did  not  seem  to  lie  in  their  way,  and  which  they  might 
have  escaped  had  they  not  been  thus  forced  upon  thein. 
"  The  genius  seeing  me  indulge  mj'^self  in  this  melancholy  prospect, 
fold  me  I  had  dwelt  long  enough  upon  it.  "Take  thine  tyes  off  the 
bridge,"  said  he,  "and  tell  me  if  thou  seest  anything  thou  dost  not 
comprehend."  Upon  looking  up,  "What  mean,"  said  I,  "those  great 
flights  of  birds  that  are  perpetually  hovering  about  the  bridge,  and 
settling  upon  it  from  time  to  time.''  I  see  vultures,  harpies,  ravens, 
cormorants,  and,  among  many  other  feathered  creatures,  several  little 
winged  boys  that  perch  in  great  numbers  upon  the  middle  arches." 
"  These,"  said  the  genius,  "  are  envy,  avarice,  superstition,  despair, 
love,  with  the  like  cares  and  passions  that  infest  human  life." 

I  here  fetched  a  deep  sigh.  "Alas,"  said  I,  "man  was  made  in 
vain!  how  is  he  given  away  to  misery  and  mortality!  tortured  in  life, 
and  swallowed  up  in  death  !  "  The  genius  being  moved  with  compas-. 
sion  towards  me,  bid  me  quit  so  uncomfortable  a  prospect.  "  Look 
no  more,"  said  he,  "on  man  in  the  first  stage  of  his  existence,  in  his 
setting  out  for  eternity;  but  cast  thine  eyo.  on  that  thick  mist  into 
which  the  tide  bears  the  several  generations  of  mortals  that  fall  into 
it."  I  directed  my  sight  as  I  was  ordered,  and  (whether  or  not  the 
good  genius  strengthened  it  with  any  supernatural  force,  or  dissipated 
part  of  the  mist  that  was  before  too  thick  for  the  eye  to  penetrate)  I 
saw  the  valley  opening  at  the  farther  end,  and  spreading  forth  into  an 
immense  ocean,  that  had  a  huge  rock  of  adamant  running  through  the 
midst  of  it,  and  dividing  it  into  two  equal  parts.  The  clouds  still 
rested  on  one  half  of  it,  insomuch  that  I  could  discover  nothing  in  it; 
but  the  other  appeared  to  me  a  vast  ocean,  planted  with  innumerable 
islands,  that  were  covered  with  fruits  and  flovers,  and  interwoven  with 
a.thousand  little  shining  seas  that  ran  among  them.     I  could  see  per- 


236  JOSEPH  ADDISON.  Chap.  XV. 

sons  dressed  in  glorious  habits,  with  garlands  upon  their  heads,  pass* 
ing  among  the  trees,  lying  down  by  the  sides  of  fountains,  or  resting 
on  beds  of  flowers.  Gladness  grew  in  me  at  the  discovery  of  so  de- 
lightful a  scene.  I  wished  for  the  wings  of  an  eagle,  that  I  might  fly 
away  to  those  happy  seats ;  but  the  genius  told  me  there  was  no  pas- 
sage to  them,  except  through  the  gates  of  death  that  I  saw  opening 
every  moment  upon  the  bridge.  "The  islands,"  said  he,  "  that  lie  so 
fresh  and  green  before  thee,  and  with  which  the  whole  face  of  the 
ocean  appears  spotted  as  far  as  thou  canst  see,  are  more  in  number 
than  the  sands  on  the  seashore.  There  are  myriads  of  islands  behind 
those  which  thou  here  discoverest,  reaching  further  than  thine  eye,  or 
even  thine  imagination,  can  extend  itself.  These  are  the  mansions  of 
good  men  after  death,  who,  according  to  the  degree  and  kinds  of  virtue 
in  which  they  excelled,  are  distributed  among  these  several  islands, 
which  abound  with  pleasure  of  diflferent  kinds  and  degrees,  suitable  to 
the  relishes  and  perfections  of  those  who  are  settled  in  them  :  every 
island  is  a  paradise  accommodated  to  its  respective  inhabitants.  Are 
not  these,  O  Mirza,  habitations  worth  contending  for.?  Does  life  ap- 
pear miserable,  that  gives  the  opportunities  of  earning  such  a  reward? 
Is  death  to  be  feared,  that  will  convey  thee  to  so  happy  an  existence? 
Think  not  man  was  made  in  vain,  who  has  such  an  eternity  reserved 
for  him."  I  gazed  with  inexpressible  pleasure  on  these  happy  islands. 
At  length,  said  I,  "  Show  me  now,  I  beseech  thee,  the  secrets  that  lie 
hid  under  those  dark  clouds,  which  cover  the  ocean  on  the  other  side 
of  the  rock  of  adamant."  The  genius  making  no  answer,  I  turned 
about  to  address  myself  to  him  a  second  time,  but  I  found  that  he  had 
left  me.  I  then  turned  again  to  the  vision  which  I  had  been  so  long 
contemplating;  but  instead  of  the  rolling  tide,  the  arched  bridge,  and 
the  happy  islands,  I  saw  nothing  but  the  long  hollow  valley  of  Bagdad, 
with  oxen,  sheep,  and  camels  grazing  upon  the  sides  of  it. 


184:»    Reflections  in  Westminster  Abbey. 

When  I  look  upon  the  tombs  of  the  great,  every  emotion  of  envy 
dies  in  me;  when  I  read  the  epitaphs  of  the  beautiful,  every  inordinate 
desire  goes  out;  when  I  meet  with  the  grief  of  parents  upon  a  tomb- 
stone, my  heart  melts  with  compassion ;  when  I  see  the  tomb  of  the 
parents  themselves,  I  consider  the  vanity  of  grieving  for  those  whom 
we  must  quickly  follow.  When  I  see  kings  lying  by  those  who  de- 
posed them,  when  I  consider  rival  wits  placed  side  by  side,  or  the  holy 
men  that  divided  the  world  with  their  contests  and  disputes,  I  reflect 
with  sorrow  and  astonishment  on  the  little  competitions,  factions,  and 
debates  of  mankind.  When  I  read  the  several  dates  of  the  tombs,  of 
some  that  died  yesterday,  and  some  six  hundred  years  ago,  I  consider 
that  great  day  when  we  shall  all  of  us  be  contemporaries,  and  make 
our  appearance  together. 


A.  D.  1675-1729.      SIPc  RICHARD   STEELE.  237 


*  From  "  Cato." 

T.8o.  Cato's  Soliloquy  on  the  Immortality  of  the  Soul. 

It  must  be  so  ;  —  Plato,  thou  reason'st  well, 

Else  whence  this  pleasing  hope,  this  fond  desire, 

This  longing  after  immortality? 

Or  whence  this  secret  dread  and  inward  horror 

Of  falling  into  nought?     Why  shrinks  the  soul 

Back  on  herself,  and  startles  at  destruction? 

—  'Tis  the  Divinity  that  stirs  within  us, 

'Tis  heaven  itself  that  points  out  an  hereafter, 

And  intimates  Eternity  to  man. 

Eternity!  —  thou  pleasing  —  dreadful  thought! 

Through  what  variety  of  untried  being  — 

Through  what  new  scenes  and  changes  must  we  pass  I 

The  wide,  th'  unbounded  prospect  lies  before  me; 

But  shadows,  clouds,  and  darkness  rest  upon  it. 

Here  will  I  hold  :  —  If  there's  a  Power  above  us 

(And  that  there  is  all  Nature  cries  aloud 

Through  all  her  works),  he  must  delight  in  Virtue; 

And  that  which  he  delights  in  must  be  happy : 

But  —  when?  —  or  where? —  This  world  was  made  for  Caesar. 

I'm  weary  of  conjectures  :  —  This  must  end  them. 

\_Laying  his  hand  on  his  sword. 
Thus  I  am  doubly  armed ;  my  death  and  life. 
My  bane  and  antidote  are  both  before  me. 
This  in  a  moment  brings  me  to  an  end, 
But  this  informs  ine  I  shall  never  die. 
The  soul,  secured  in  her  existence,  smiles 
At  the  drawn  dagger,  and  defies  its  point. 
The  stars  shall  fade  away,  the  sun  himself 
Grow  dim  with  age,  and  nature  sink  in  years; 
But  thou  shalt  flourish  in  immortal  youth, 
Unhurt  amid  the  war  of  elements, 
The  wreck  of  matter,  and  the  crush  of  worlds. 


Sir  Richard  Steele.     1675-1729.     (Manual,  p.  291.) 

ISG,   The  Dream. 

I  was  once  myself  in  agonies  of  grief  that  are  unutterable,  ana  in  so 
great  a  distraction  of  mind,  that  I  thought  myself  even  out  of  the  pos- 
sibility of  receiving  comfort.  The  occasion  was  as  follows  :  When  I 
was  a  youth  in  a  part  of  the  army  which  was  then  quartered  at  Dover, 
I  fell  in  love  with  an  agreeable  young,  woman,  of  a  good  fawiily  in 


238  Sm   WILLIAM  TEMPLE.  Chap.  XV. 

these  parts,  and  had  the  satisfaction  of  seeing  my  addresses  kindly  re* 
ceived,  which  occasioned  the  perplexity  I  am  going  to  relate. 

We  were,  in  a  calm  evening,  diverting  ourselves  upon  the  top  of  a 
cliff  with  the  prospect  of  the  sea,  and  trifling  awaj'  the  time  in  such 
little  fondnesses  as  are  most  ridiculous  to  people  in  business,  and 
most  agreeable  to  those  in  love.  ^ 

In  the  midst  of  these  our  innocent  endearments,  she  snatched  a 
paper  of  verses  out  of  my  hand,  and  ran  away  with  them.  I  was  fol- 
lowing her,  when  on  a  sudden  the  ground,  though  at  a  considerable 
distance  from  the  verge  of  the  precipice,  sunk  under  her,  and  threw 
her  down  from  so  prodigious  a  height  upon  such  a  range  of  rocks,  as 
would  have  dashed  her  into  ten  thousand  pieces,  had  her  body  been 
made  of  adamant.  It  is  much  easier  for  my  reader  to  imagine  my 
state  of  mind  upon  such  an  occasion,  than  for  me  to  express  it.  I  said 
to  myself.  It  is  not  in  the  power  of  Heaven  to  relieve  me !  when  I 
awaked,  transported  and  astonished,  to  see  myself  drawn  out  of  an 
affliction  which,  the  very  moment  before,  appeared  to  me  altogether 
inextricable. 

The  impressions  of  grief  and  horror  were  so  lively  on  this  occasion, 
that  while  they  lasted  they  made  me  more  miserable  than  I  was  at  the 
real  death  of  this  beloved  person,  which  happened  a  few  months  after, 
at  a  time  when  the  match  between  us  was  concluded ;  inasmuch  as  the 
imaginary  death  was  untimely,  and  I  myself  in  a  sort  an  accessary; 
whereas  her  real  decease  had  at  least  these  alleviations,  of  being  nat- 
ural and  inevitable. 

The  memory  of  the  dream  I  have  related  still  dwells  so  strongly 
upon  me,  that  I  can  never  read  the  description  of  Dover  Cliff  in 
Shakspeare's  tragedy  of  King  Lear,  without  a  fresh  sense  of  my 
escape.  The  prospect  from  that  place  is  drawn  with  such  proper 
incidents,  that  whoever  can  read  it  without  growing  giddy  must  have 
a  good  head,  or  a  very  bad  one. 


Sir  William  Temple.     162S-1699.    (Manual,  p.  296.) 

187*   Against  Excessive  Grief. 

(From  a  Letter  addressed  to  the  Countess  of  Essex  on  the  loss  of  her  only  daughter.) 

I  know  no  duty  in  religion  more  generally  agreed  on,  nor  more 
justly  required  hy  God  Almighty,  than  a  perfect  submission  to  his  will 
in  all  things;  nor  do  I  think  any  disposition  of  mind  can  either  please 
him  more,  or  becomes  us  better,  than  that  of  being  satisfied  with  all 
he  gives,  and  contented  with  all  he  takes  away.  None,  I  am  sure, 
can  be  of  more  honor  to  God,  nor  of  more  ease  to  ourselves.  For,  if 
we  consider  him  as  our  Maker,  we  cannot  contend  with  him;  if  as 
our  Father,  we  ought  not  to  distrust  him  :  so  that  we  may  be  confi- 
dent, whatever  he  does  is  intended  for  good ;  and  whatever  happens 


A.  J).  1671-1713.  LORD  SUAFTESDUET.  239 

that  we  interpret  otherwise,  yet  we  can  get  nothing  hy  repining,  nor 
save  anything  by  resisting.         »         *         *         * 

You  will  say,  perhaps,  that  one  thing  was  all  to  you,  and  your  fond- 
ness of  it  made  you  indifferent  to  everything  else.  But  this,  I  doubt, 
will  be  so  far  from  justifying  you,  that  it  will  prove  to  be  your  fault, 
as  well  as  your  misfortune.  God  Almighty  gave  you  all  the  blessings 
of  life,  and  you  set  your  heart  wholly  upon  one,  and  despise  or  un- 
dervalue all  the  rest:  is  this  his  fault  or  yours.-*  Nay,  is  it  not  to  be 
very  unthankful  to  Heaven,  as  well  as  very  scornful  to  the  rest  of  the 
world.?  is  it  not  to  say,  because  you  have  lost  one  thing  God  has 
given,  you  thank  him  for  nothing  he  has  left,  and  care  not  what  he 
takes  away.?  is  it  not  to  say,  since  that  one  thing  is  gone  out  of  the 
world,  there  is  nothing  left  in  it  which  you  think  can  deserve  your 
kindness  or  esteem.?         ♦         *         *         * 

Christianity  teaches  and  commands  us  to  moderate  our  passions; 
to  temper  our  affections  towards  all  things  below;  to  be  thankful  for 
the  possession,  and  patient  under  the  loss,  whenever  He  who  gave 
shall  see  fit  to  take  away.  Your  extreme  fondness  was  perhaps  as 
displeasing  to  God  before,  as  now  your  extreme  affliction  is;  and  your 
loss  may  have  been  a  punishment  for  your  faults  in  the  manner  of  en- 
joying what  you  had.  It  is,  at  least,  pious  to  ascribe  all  the  ill  that 
befalls  us  to  our  own  demerits,  rather  than  to  injustice  in  God.  And 
it  becomes  us  better  to  adore  the  issues  of  his  providence  in  the  effects, 
than  to  inquire  into  the  causes ;  for  submission  is  the  only  way  of 
reasoning  between  a  creature  and  its  Maker;  and  contentment  in  his 
will  is  the  greatest  dut}'  we  can  pretend  to,  and  the  best  remedy  we 
can  apply  to  all  our  misfortunes. 


Lord  Shaftesbury.     1671-1713.     (Manual,  p.  397.) 
From  "  The  Moralists." 
ISS,   The  Deity  unfolded  in  his  Works. 

How  oblique  and  faintly  looks  the  sun  on  yonder  climates,  far  re- 
moved from  him  !  How  tedious  are  the  winters  there  !  How  deep  the 
horrors  of  the  night,  and  how  uncomfortable  even  the  light  of  day! 
The  freezing  winds  employ  their  fiercest  breath,  3'et  are  not  spent 
with  blowing.  The  sea,  which  elsewhere  is  scarce  confined  within  its 
limits,  lies  here  immured  in  walls  of  crystal.  The  snow  covers  the 
hills,  and  almost  fills  the  lowest  valleys.  How  wide  and  deep  it  lies, 
incumbent  o'er  the  plains,  hiding  the  sluggish  rivers,  the  shrubs  and 
trees,  the  dens  of  beasts,  and  mansions  of  distressed  and  feeble  men! 
See  where  they  lie  confined,  hardly  secure  against  the  raging  cold  or 
the  attacks  of  the  wild  beasts,  now  masters  of  the  wasted  field,  and 
forced  by  hunger  out  of  the  naked  wood.  Yet  not  disheartened  (such 
is  the  force  of  human  breasts),  but  thus   provided  for  by  art  and 


240  LORD  BOLINOBROKE.  Chap.  XV. 

prudence,  the  kind  compensating  gifts  of  Heaven,  men  and  their  herds 
may  wait  for  a  release.  For,  at  length,  the  sun  approaching  melts  the 
snow,  sets  longing  men  at  liberty,  and  affords  them  means  and  time 
to  make  provision  against  the  next  return  of  cold.  It  breaks  the  icy 
fetters  of  the  main,  wiiere  vast  sea-monsters  pierce  through  floating 
islands,  with  arms  which  can  withstand  the  crystal  rock;  whilst 
others,  who  of  themselves  seem  great  as  islands,  are  by  their  bulk 
alone  armed  against  all  but  man,  whose  superiority  over  creatures  of 
such  stupendous  size  and  force  should  make  him  mindful  of  his  privi- 
lege of  reason,  and  force  him  humbly  to  adore  the  great  Composer  of 
these  wondrous  frames,  and  Author  of  his  own  superior  wisdom. 

But  leaving  these  dull  climates,  so  little  favored  by  the  sun,  for 
those  happier  regions,  on  which  he  looks  more  kindly,  making  per- 
petual summer,  how  great  an  alteration  do  we  find !  His  purer  light 
confounds  weak-sighted  mortals,  pierced  by  his  scorching  beams. 
Scarce  can  they  tread  the  glowing  ground.  The  air  they  breathe  can- 
not enough  abate  the  fire  which  burns  within  their  panting  breasts. 
Their  bodies  melt.  O'ercome  and  fainting,  they  seek  the  shade,  and 
wait  the  cool  refreshments  of  the  night.  Yet  oft  the  bounteous  Crea- 
tor bestows  other  refreshments.  He  casts  a  veil  of  clouds  before  them, 
and  raises  gentle  gales ;  favored  by  which,  the  men  and  beasts  pursue 
their  labors,  and  plants  refreshed  by  dews  and  showers  can  gladly 
bear  the  warmest  sunbeams. 

And  here  the  varying  scene  opens  to  new  wonders.  We  see  a 
country  rich  with  gems,  but  richer  with  the  fragrant  spices  it  aftbrds. 
How  gravely  move  the  largest  of  land-creatures  on  the  banks  of  this 
fair  river!  How  ponderous  are  their  arms,  and  vast  their  strength, 
with  courage,  and  a  sense  superior  to  the  other  beasts  !  Yet  are  they 
tamed  (we  see)  by  mankind,  and  brought  even  to  fight  their  battles, 
rather  as  allies  and  confederates  than  as  slaves.         *         *        ♦        * 

Now  may  we  see  that  happy  country  where  precious  gums  and 
balsams  flow  from  trees,  and  nature  yields  her  most  delicious  fruits. 
How  tame  and  tractable,  how  patient  of  labor  and  of  thirst,  are  those 
large  creatures,  who,  lifting  up  their  lofty  heads,  go  led  and  laden 
through  those  dry  and  barren  places!  Their  shape  and  temper  show 
them  framed  by  nature  to  submit  to  man,  and  fitted  for  his  service, 
who  from  hence  ought  to  be  more  sensible  of  his  wants,  and  of  the 
divine  bounty  thus  supplying  them. 


Lord  Bolingbroke.     1678-1751.     (Manual,  p.  298.) 

ISO,  The  Use  of  History. 

To  teach  and  to  inculcate  the  general  principles  of  virtue,  and  the 
general  rules  of  wisdom  and  good  policy  which  result  from  such  de- 
tails of  actions  and  characters,  comes,  for  the  most  part,  and  always 
should  come,  expressly  and  directly  into  the  design  of  those  who  are 


A.  D.  1678-1751.        LORD   BOLINGBROKE.  241 

capable  of  giving  such  details;  and,  therefore,  whilst  they  narrate  as 
historians,  they  hint  often  as  philosophers  :  they  put  into  our  hands, 
as  it  were,  on  every  proper  occasion,  the  end  of  a  clue,  that  serves  to 
i-emind  us  of  searching,  and  to  guide  us  in  the  search  of  that  truth 
which  the  example  before  us  either  establishes  or  illustrates.  If  a 
writer  neglects  this  part,  we  are  able,  however,  to  suppy  his  neglect  by 
our  own  attention  and  industry:  and  when  he  gives  us  a  good  history 
of  Peruvians  or  Mexicans,  of  Chinese  or  Tartars,  of  Muscovites  or 
Negroes,  we  may  blame  him,  but  we  must  blame  ourselves  much  more, 
if  we  do  not  make  it  a  good  lesson  of  philosophy.  This  being  the 
general  use  of  history,  it  is  not  to  be  neglected.  Every  one  may  make 
it  who  is  able  to  read,  and  to  reflect  on  what  he  reads;  and  every  one 
who  makes  it  will  find,  in  his  degree,  the  benefit  that  arises  from  an 
early  acquaintance  contracted  in  this  manner  vvith  mankind.  We  are 
not  only  passengers  or  sojourners  in  this  world,  but  we  are  absolute 
strangers  at  the  first  steps  we  make  in  it.  Our  guides  are  often  igno- 
rant, often  unfaithful.  By  this  map  of  the  country,  which  history 
spreads  before  us,  we  may  learn,  if  we  please,  to  guide  ourselves.  In 
our  journey  through  it,  we  are  beset  on  every  side.  We  are  besieged 
sometimes,  even  in  our  strongest  holds.  Terrors  and  temptations, 
conducted  by  the  passions  of  other  men,  assault  us ;  and  our  own  pas- 
sions, that  correspond  with  these,  betray  us.  History  is  a  collection 
of  the  journals  of  those  who  have  travelled  through  the  same  country, 
and  been  exposed  to  the  same  accidents  :  and  their  good  and  their  ill 
success  are  equally  instructive.  In  this  pursuit  of  knowledge  an  im- 
mense field  is  opened  to  us  :  general  histories,  sacred  and  profane ;  the 
histories  of  particular  countries,  particular  events,  particular  orders, 
particular  men;  memorials,  anecdotes,  travels.  But  we  must  not 
ramble  in  this  field  without  discernment  or  choice,  nor  even  with  these 
must  we  ramble  too  long. 


100,   The  Patriot  King. 

The  good  of  the  people  is  the  ultimate  and  true  end  of  government. 
Governors  are  therefore  appointed  for  this  end,  and  the  civil  constitu- 
tion which  appoints  them,  and  invests  them  with  their  power,  is 
determined  to  do  so  by  that  law  of  nature  and  reason  which  has  de- 
termined the  end  of  government,  and  which  admits  this  form  of  gov- 
ernment as  the  proper  mean  of  arriving  at  it.  Now  the  greatest  good 
of  a  people  is  their  liberty ;  and  in  the  case  here  referred  to.  the  peo- 
ple has  judged  it  so,  and  provided  for  it  accordingly.  Liberty  is  to 
the  collective  body,  wha^  health  is  to  the  individual  body:  without 
health  no  pleasure  can  be  tasted  by  man,  without  liberty  no  happiness 
can  be  enjoyed  by  society.  The  obligation,  therefore,  to  defend  and 
maintain  the  freedom  of  such  constitutions,  will  appear  most  sacred 
to  a  patriot  king.  Kings  who  have  weak  understandings,  bad  hearts, 
and  strong  prejudices,  and  all  these,  as  it  oftens  happens,  inflamed  by 

i6 


2-42  BISHOP  BERKELEY.  Chap.  XV. 

their  passions,  and  rendered  incurable  bj  their  self-conceit  and  pre- 
sumption, such  kings  are  apt  to  imagine,  and  they  conduct  themselves 
so  as  to  make  many  of  their  subjects  imagine,  that  the  king  and  the 
people  in  free  governments  are  rival  powers,  w^ho  stand  in  competition 
with  one  another,  who  have  different  interests,  and  must  of  course 
have  different  views  :  that  the  rights  and  privileges  of  the  people  are 
so  inany  spoils  taken  from  the  right  and  prerogative  of  the  crown  ; 
and  that  the  rules  and  laws,  made  for  the  exercise  and  security  of  the 
former,  are  so  many  diminutions  of  their  dignity,  and  restraints  on 
their  power. 

A  patriot  king  will  see  all  this  in  a  far  different  and  much  truer 
light.  The  constitution  will  be  considered  by  him  as  one  law,  con- 
sisting of  two  tables,  containing  the  rule  of  his  government,  and  the 
measure  of  his  subjects'  obedience ;  or  as  one  system,  composed  of 
different  parts  and  powers,  but  all  duly  proportioned  to  one  another, 
and  conspiring  by  their  harmony  to  the  perfection  of  the  whole. 


Bishop  Berkeley.     1684-1753.     (Manual,  p.  299.) 

^  101,    Luxury  the  Cause  of  National  Ruin. 

Frugality  of  manners  is  the  nourishment  and  strength  of  bodies 
politic.  It  is  that  by  which  they  grow  and  subsist,  until  they  are 
corrupted  by  luxury,  —  the  natural  cause  of  their  decay  and  ruin.  Of 
this  we  have  examples  in  the  Persians,  JLacediemonians,  and  Romans  : 
not  to  mention  many  later  governments  which  have  sprung  up,  con- 
tinued a  while,  and  then  perished  by  the  same  natural  causes.  But 
these  are,  it  seems,  of  no  use  to  us  :  and,  in  spite  of  them,  we  are  in  a 
fair  way  of  becoming  ourselves  another  useless  example  to  future 
ages.         *         *         *         ♦ 

It  is  not  to  be  believed,  what  influence  public  diversions  have  on 
the  spirit  and  manners  of  a  people.  The  Greeks  wisely  saw  this,  and 
made  a  very  serious  aftair  of  their  public  sports.  For  the  same  reason, 
it  will,  perhaps,  seem  worthy  the  care  of  our  legislature  to  regulate  the 
public  diversions,  by  an  absolute  prohibition  of  those  which  have  a 
direct  tendency  to  corrupt  our  morals,  as  well  as  by  a  reformation  of 
the  drama;  which,  when  rightly  managed,  is  such  a  noble  entertain- 
ment, and  gave  those  fine  lessons  of  morality  and  good  sense  to  the 
Athenians  of  old,  and  to  our  British  gentry  above  a  century  ago;  but 
for  these  last  ninety  years,  hath  entertained  us,  for  the  most  part, 
with  such  wretched  things  as  spoil,  instead  of  improving  the  taste  and 
manners  of  the  audience.  Those  who  are  attentive  to  such  proposi- 
tions only  as  may  fill  their  pockets,  will  probably  slight  these  things 
as  trifles  below  the  care  of  the  legislature.  But  I  am  sure,  all  honest, 
thinking  men  must  lament  to  see  their  country  run  headlong  into  all 
those  luxurious  follies,  which,  it  is  evident,  have  been  fatal  to  other 
nations,  and  will  undi  -'btedly  prove  fatal  to  us  also,  if  a  timely  stop 
be  not  put  to  them. 


A.  U.  1690-1762.        LADY  MARY  MONTAGU.  243 


102,   Lady  Mary  Montagu,     i 690-1 763.    (Manual, 

p.  300.) 

From  her  Letters. 

Vienna,  October  1,  O.  S.  1716. 
But  now  I  am  speaking  of  Vienna,  I  am  sure  you  expect  I  should 
say  something  of  the  convents  :  they  are  of  all  sorts  and  sizes ;  but 
I  am  best  pleased  with  that  of  St.  Lawrence,  where  the  ease  and  neat- 
ness they  seem  to  live  with,  appears  to  be  much  more  edifying  than 
those  stricter  orders,  where  perpetual  penance  and  nastiness  must 
breed  discontent  and  wretchedness.  The  nuns  are  all  of  quality.  I 
think  there  are  to  the  number  of  fifty.  They  have  each  of  them  a 
little  cell  perfectly  clean,  the  walls  of  which  are  covered  with  pictures 
more  or  less  fine,  according  to  their  quality.  A  long  stone  gallery 
runs  by  all  of  them,  furnished  with  the  pictures  of  exemplary  sisters ; 
the  chapel  is  extremely  neat,  and  richly  adorned.  Nothing  can  be 
more  becoming  than  the  dress  of  these  nuns.  It  is  a  white  robe,  the 
sleeves  of  which  are  turned  up  with  fine  white  calico,  and  their  head- 
dress the  same,  excepting  a  small  veil  of  black  crape  that  falls  behind. 
They  have  a  lower  sort  of  serving  nuns  that  wait  on  them  as  their 
chamber-maids.  They  receive  all  visits  of  women,  and  play  at  ombre 
in  their  chambers  with  permission  of  their  abbess,  which  is  very  easy 
to  be  obtained.  I  never  saw  an  old  woman  so  good-natured ;  she  is 
near  fourscore,  and  yet  shows  very  little  signs  of  decay,  being  still 
lively  and  cheerful.  She  caressed  me  as  if  I  had  been  her  daughter, 
giving  me  some  pretty  things  of  her  own  work,  and  sweetmeats  in 
abundance.  The  grate  is  not  of  the  most  r'glj;  it  is  not  very  hard  to 
put  a  head  through.  The  young  Count  of  Salamis  came  to  the  grate, 
while  I  was  there,  and  the  abbess  gave  him  her  hand  to  kiss.  But  I 
was  surprised  to  find  here  the  only  beautiful  young  woman  I  have 
seen  at  Vienna,  and,  not  only  beautiful,  but  genteel,  witty,  and  agree- 
able, of  a  great  family,  and  who  had  been  the  admiration  of  the  town. 
I  could  not  forbear  showing  my  surprise  at  seeing  a  nun  like  her. 
She  made  me  a  thousand  obliging  compliments,  and  desired  me  to 
come  often.  "It  would  be  an  infinite  pleasure  to  me,"  said  she.  sigh- 
ing, "but  I  avoid,  with  the  greatest  care,  seeing  any  of  my  former 
acquaintances ;  and,  whenever  they  come  to  our  convent,  I  lock  my- 
self in  my  cell."  I  observed  tears  come  into  her  eyes,  which  touched 
me  extremely,  and  I  began  to  talk  to  her  in  that  strain  offender  pity 
Khe  inspired  me  with. 


244  DANIEL  DEFOE.  Chap.  XVL 


CHAPTER    XVI. 

THE    GREAT    NOVELISTS. 


193»  Daniel  Defoe.     1661-1731.     (Manual,  p.  306.) 

From  "The  Great  Plague  in  London." 

Much  about  the  same  time  I  walked  out  into  the  fields  towards  Bow, 
for  I  had  a  great  mind  to  see  how  things  were  managed  in  the  river, 
and  among  the  ships;  and  as  I  had  some  concern  in  shipping,  I  had 
a  notion  that  it  had  been  one  of  the  best  ways  of  securing  one's  self 
from  the  infection,  to  have  retired  into  a  ship ;  and  musing  how  to 
satisfy  mj  curiosity  in  that  point,  I  turned  away  over  the  fields,  from 
Bow  to  Bromley,  and  down  to  Blackwall,  to  the  stairs  that  are  there 
for  landing  or  taking  water. 

Here  I  saw  a  poor  man  walking  on  the  bank  or  sea-wall,  as  they 
call  it,  by  himself.  I  walked  a  while  also  about,  seeing  the  houses  all 
shut  up ;  at  last  I  fell  into  some  talk,  at  a  distance,  with  this  poor 
man.  First  I  asked  him  how  people  did  thereabouts  ?  Alas !  sir, 
says  he,  almost  desolate;  all  dead  or  sick:  here  are  very  few  families 
in  this  part,  or  in  that  village,  pointing  at  Poplar,  where  half  of  them 
are  not  dead  already,  and  the  rest  sick.  Then  pointing  to  one  house, 
There  they  are  all  dead,  said  he,  and  the  house  stands  open ;  nobody 
dares  go  into  it.  A  poor  thief,  says  he,  ventured  in  to  steal  some- 
thing, but  he  paid  dear  for  his  theft,  for  he  was  carried  to  the  church- 
yard too,  last  night.  Then  he  pointed  to  several  other  houses.  There, 
says  he,  they  are  all  dead,  the  man  and  his  wife  and  five  children. 
There,  says  he,  they  are  shut  up ;  you  see  a  watchman  at  the  door, 
and  so  of  other  houses.  Why,  said  I,  what  do  you  do  here  all  alone  .^ 
Why,  says  he,  I  am  a  poor  desolate  man;  it  hath  pleased  God  I 
am  not  yet  visited,  though  my  family  is,  and  one  of  my  children 
dead.  How  do  you  mean  then,  said  I,  that  you  are  not  visited.''  Why, 
says  he,  that  is  my  house,  pointing  to  a  very  little  low  boarded  house, 
and  there  my  poor  wife  and  two  children  live,  said  he,  if  they  may 
be  said  to  live;  for  my  wife  and  one  of  the  children  are  visited,  but 
I  do  not  come  at  them.  And  with  that  word  I  saw  the  tears  run 
very  plentifully  down  his  face;  and  so  they  did  down  mine  too,  I 
assure  you. 

But,  said  I,  why  do  you  not  come  at  them.''  How  can  you  abandon 
your  own  flesh  and  blood?    O,  sir,  says  he,  the  Lord  forbid;  I  do 


^.  D.  1661-1731.  DANIEL    DEFOE.  245 

not  abandon  them ;  I  work  for  tliem  as  much  as  I  am  able ;  and, 
blessed"  be  the  Lord,  I  keep  them  from  want.  And  with  that  I  ob- 
served he  lifted  up  his  ejes  to  heaven  with  a  countenance  that  pres- 
ently told  me  I  had  happened  on  a  man  that  was  no  hypocrite,  but  a 
serious,  religious,  good  man;  and  his  ejaculation  was  an  expression 
of  thankfulness,  that,  in  such  a  condition  as  he  was  in,  he  should  be 
able  to  say  his  family  did  not  want.  Well,  said  I,  honest  man,  that 
is  a  great  mercy,  as  things  go  now  with  the  poor.  But  how  do  you 
live  then,  and  how  are  you  kept  from  the  dreadful  calamity  that  is 
now  upon  us  all.''  Why,  sir,  says  he,  I  am  a  waterman,  and  there 
is  my  boat,  says  he,  and  the  boat  serves  me  for  a  house;  I  work 
in  it  in  the  day,  and  I  sleep  in  it  in  the  night,  and  what  I  get  I  lay 
it  down  upon  that  stone,  says  he,  showing  me  a  broad  stone  on  the 
other  side  of  the  street,  a  good  way  from  his  house;  and  then,  says 
he,  I  halloo  and  call  to  them  till  I  make  them  hear,  and  they  come 
and  fetch  it. 

Well,  friend,  said  I,  but  how  can  you  get  money  as  a  waterman? 
Does  anybody  go  by  water  these  times?  Yes,  sir,  says  he,  in  the 
way  I  am  employed  there  does.  Do  you  see  there,  says  he,  five  ships 
lie  at  anchor?  pointing  down  the  river  a  good  way  below  the  town; 
and  do  you  see,  says  he,  eight  or  ten  ships  lie  at  the  chain  there,  and 
at  anchor  yonder?  pointing  above  the  town.  All  those  ships  have 
families  on  board,  of  their  merchants  and  owners,  and  such  like,  who 
have  locked  themselves  up,  and  live  on  board,  close  shut  in,  for  fear 
of  the  infection;  and  I  tend  on  them  to  fetch  things  for  them,  carry 
letters,  and  do  what  is  absolutely  necessary,  that  they  may  not  be 
obliged  to  come  on  shore ;  and  every  night  I  fasten  my  boat  on  board 
one  of  the  ship's  boats,  and  there  I  sleep  by  myself;  and  blessed  be 
God,  I  am  preserved  hitherto. 

Well,  said  I,  friend,  but  will  they  let  you  come  on  board  after  you 
have  been  on  shore  here,  when  this  has  been  such  a  terrible  place, 
and  so  infected  as  it  is? 

Why,  as  to  that,  said  he,  I  very  seldom  go  up  the  ship-side,  but 
deliver  what  I  bring  to  their  boat,  or  lie  by  the  side,  and  they  hoist 
it  on  board ;  if  I  did,  I  think  they  are  in  no  danger  from  me,  for  1 
never  go  into  any  house  on  shore,  or  touch  anybody,  no,  not  of  my 
own  family;  but  I  fetch  provisions  for  them. 

Nay,  said  I,  but  that  may  be  worse,  for  you  must  have  those  pro- 
visions of  somebody  or  other;  and  since  all  this  part  of  the  town  is  so 
infected,  it  is  dangerous  so  much  as  to  speak  with  anybody ;  for  the 
village,  said  I,  is,  as  it  were,  the  beginning  of  London,  though  it  be 
at  some  distance  from  it. 

That  is  true,  added  he,  but  you  do  not  understand  me  right.  I  do 
not  buy  provisions  for  them  here ;  I  row  up  to  Greenwich,  and  buy 
fresh  meat  there,  and  sometimes  I  row  down  the  river  to  Woolwich, 
and  buy  there;  then  I  go  to  single  farm-houses  on  the  Kentish  side, 
where  I  am  known,  and  buy  fowls,  and  eggs,  and  butter,  and  bring  to 
the  ships,  as  they  direct  me,  sometimes  one,  sometimes  the  other.     1 


246  HENRY  FIELDING,  Chap.  XVL 

seldom  come  on  shore  here;  and  I  came  only  now  to  call  mj  wife, 
and  hear  how  my  little  family  do,  and  give  them  a  liltle  money  which 
I  received  last  night. 

Poor  man !  said  I,  and  how  much  hast  thou  gotten  for  them  ? 

I  have  gotten  four  shillings,  said  he,  which  is  a  great  sum,  as  things 
go  now  with  poor  men;  but  they  have  given  me  a  ')ag  of  bread  too, 
and  a  salt  fish,  and  some  flesh;  so  all  helps  out. 

Well,  said  I,  and  have  you  given  it  them  yet? 

No,  said  he,  but  I  have  called,  and  my  wife  has  answered  that  she 
cannot  come  out  yet;  but  in  half  an  hour  she  hopes  to  come,  and  I 
am  w^aiting  for  her.  Poor  woman !  says  he,  she  is  brought  sadly 
down ;  she  has  had  a  swelling,  and  it  is  broke,  and  I  hope  she  will 
recover,  but  I  fear  the  child  will  die;  but  it  is  the  Lord!  Here  he 
stopt,  and  wept  very  much. 

Well,  honest  friend,  said  I,  thou  hast  a  sure  comforter,  if  thou  hast 
brought  thyself  to  be  resigned  to  the  will  of  God ;  he  is  dealing  with 
us  all  in  judgment. 

O,  sir,  says  he,  it  is  infinite  mercy  if  any  of  us  are  spared ;  and 
who  am  I  to  repine ! 


104:,    Henry  Fielding,     i  707-1 754.     (Manual,  p.  312.) 

From  "  Tom  Jones." 

Being  now  provided  with  all  the  necessaries  of  life,  I  betook  myself 
once  again  to  study,  and  that  with  a  more  ordinate  application  than 
I  had  ever  done  formerly.  The  books  which  now  employed  my  time 
solely  were  those,  as  well  ancient  as  modern,  which  treat  of  true 
philosophy,  a  word  which  is  by  many  thought  to  be  the  subject  only 
of  farce  and  ridicule.  I  now  read  over  the  w^orks  of  Aristotle  and 
Plato,  with  the  rest  of  those  inestimable  treasures  which  ancient 
Greece  hath  bequeathed  to  the  world. 

To  this  I  added  another  study,  compared  to  which  all  the  philos- 
ophy taught  by  the  wisest  heathens  is  little  better  than  a  dream,  and 
is  indeed  as  full  of  vanity  as  the  silliest  jester  ever  pleased  to  repre- 
sent it.  This  is  that  divine  wisdom  which  is  alone  to  be  found  in  ^''e 
Holy  Scriptures:  for  those  impart  to  us  the  knowledge  and  assurance 
of  things  much  more  worthy  our  attention,  than  all  which  this  world 
can  offer  to  our  acceptance;  of  things  which  Heaven  itself  hath  con- 
descended to  reveal  to  us,  and  to  the  smallest  knowledge  of  which  the 
highest  human  wit  unassisted  could  never  ascend.  I  began  now  to 
tl.ink  all  the  time  I  had  spent  with  the  best  heathen  writers  was  little 
more  than  labor  lost:  for  however  pleasant  and  delightful  their  les- 
sons may  be,  or  however  adequate  to  the  right  regulation  of  our  con- 
duct with  respect  to  this  world  only,  yet,  when  compared  with  the 
glory  revealed  in  Scripture,  their  highest  docvmients  will  appear  as 
trifling,  and  of  as  little  consequence  as  the  rules  by  which  children 
regulate  their  childish   little  games  and  pastime.      True  it   is,    that 


A.  L».  1721-1771.      TOBIAS    GEOllOE   SMOLLET.  247 

philosophj  makes  us  wiser,  but  Christianity  makes  us  better  men. 
Philosophy  elevates  and  steels  the  mind,  Christianity  softens  and 
sweetens  it.  The  former  makes  us  the  objects  of  human  admiration, 
ihe  latter  of  divine  love.  That  insures  us  a  temporal,  but  this  an 
eternal  happiness. 

Tobias  George  Smollett.     1731-1771.     (Manual,  p.  315.) 

li)iJ»   The  Soldier's  Return. 

We  set  out  from  Glasgow,  by  the  way  of  Lanark,  the  county  town 
of  Clydesdale,  in  the  neighborhood  of  which  the  whole  river  Clyde, 
rushing  down  a  steep  rock,  forms  a  very  noble  and  stupendous  cas- 
cade. Next  day  we  were  obliged  to  halt  in  a  small  borough,  until  the 
carriage,  which  had  received  some  damage,  should  be  repaired ;  and 
here  we  met  with  an  incident  which  warmly  interested  the  benevolent 
spirit  of  Mr.  Bramble.  As  we  stood  at  the  window  of  an  inn  that 
fronted  the  public  prison,  a  person  arrived  on  horseback,  genteelly 
though  plainly  dressed  in  a  blue  frock,  with  his  own  hair  cut  short, 
and  a  gold-laced  hat  upon  his  head.  Alighting,  and  giving  his  horse 
to  the  landlord,  he  advanced  to  an  old  man  who  was  at  work  in  paving 
the  street,  and  accosted  him  in  these  words :  "This  is  hard  work  for 
such  an  old  man  as  you."  So  saying,  he  took  the  instrument  out  of 
his  hand,  and  began  to  thump  the  pavement.  After  a  few  strokes, 
"Had  you  never  a  son,"  said  he,  "to  ease  you  of  this  labor.?"  "Yes, 
an'  please  your  honor,"  replied  the  senior,  "I  have  three  hopeful  lads, 
but  at  present  they  are  out  of  the  way."  "  Honor  not  me."  cried  the 
stranger;  "it  more  becomes  me  to  honor  your  gray  hairs.  Where 
are  those  sons  you  talk  of.?"  The  ancient  pavior  said,  his  eldest  son 
was  a  captain  in  the  East  Indies,  and  the  youngest  had  lately  enlisted 
as  a  soldier,  in  hopes  of  prospering  like  his  brother.  The  gentleman 
desiring  to  know  what  was  become  of  the  second,  he  wiped  his  eyes, 
and  owned  he  had  taken  upon  him  his  old  father's  debts,  for  which 
he  was  now  in  the  prison  hard  by. 

The  traveller  inade  three  quick  steps  towards  the  jail;  then  turning 
short,  "Tell  me,"  said  he,  "has  that  unnatural  captain  sent  you 
nothing  to  relieve  your  distresses.?"  "Call  him  not  unnatural,"  re- 
plied the  other,  "  God's  blessing  be  upon  him  I  he  sent  me  a  great 
deal  of  money,  but  I  made  a  bad  use  of  it;  I  lost  it  by  being  security 
for  a  gentleman  that  was  my  landlord,  and  was  stripped  of  all  I  had 
in  the  world  besides."  At  that  instant  a  young  man,  thrusting  out 
his  head  and  neck  between  two  iron  bars  in  the  pi^on-window,  ex- 
claimed, "Father!  father!  if  mj'  brother  William  is  in  life,  that's  he." 
"  I  am  !  I  am !  "  cried  the  stranger,  clasping  the  old  man  in  his  arms, 
and  shedding  a  flood  of  tears  ;  "I  am  your  son  Willy,  sure  enough  !  " 
Before  the  father,  who  was  quite  confounded,  could  make  any  return 
to  this  tenderness,  a  decent  old  woman,  bolting  out  from  the  door  of 
a   poo!-   habitation,   cried,    "Where   is   my   bairn.?  where   is    my  deai 


248  LAURENCE   STERNE.  Chap.  XVL 

WIllj?"  The  captain  no  sooner  beheld  her  than  he  quitted  his  father, 
and  ran  into  her  embrace. 

I  can  assure  you,  my  uncle,  who  saw  and  heard  everything  that 
passed,  was  as  inuch  moved  as  any  one  of  the  parties  concerned  in 
this  pathetic  recognition.  He  sobbed,  and  wept,  and  clapped  his 
hands,  and  holloed,  and  finally  ran  down  into  the  street.  By  this 
time  the  captain  had  retired  with  his  parents,  and  all  the  inhabitants 
of  the  place  were  assembled  at  the  door.  Mr.  Bramble,  nevertheless, 
pressed  through  the  crowd,  and  entering  the  house,  "  Captain,"  said 
he,  "  I  beg  the  favor  of  your  acquaintance.  I  would  have  travelled 
a  hundred  miles  '^to  see  this  affecting  scene;  and  I  shall  think  myself 
happy  if  you  and  your  parents  will  dine  with  me  at  the  public  house." 
The  captain  thanked  him  for  his  kind  invitation,  which,  he  said,  he 
would  accept  with  pleasure;  but  in  the  mean  time  he  could  not  think 
of  eating  or  drinking  while  his  poor  brother  was  in  trouble.  He 
forthwith  deposited  a  sum  equal  to  the  debt  in  the  hands  of  the  magis- 
trate, who  ventured  to  set  his  brother  at  liberty  without  further  pro- 
cess ;  and  then  the  whole  family  repaired  to  the  inn  with  my  uncle, 
attended  by  the  crowd,  the  individuals  of  which  shook  their  towns- 
man by  the  hand,  while  he  returned  their  caresses  without  the  least 
sign  of  pride  or  affectation.         *         *         *         * 

My  uncle  was  so  charmed  with  the  character  of  Captain  Brown  that 
he  drank  his  health  three  times  successively  at  dinner.  He  said  he 
was  proud  of  his  acquaintance ;  that  he  was  an  honor  to  his  country, 
and  had  in  some  measure  redeemed  human  nature  from  the  reproach 
of  pride,  selfishness,  and  ingratitude.  For  my  part  I  was  as  much 
pleased  with  the  modesty  as  with  the  filial  virtue  of  this  honest 
soldier,  who  assumed  no  merit  from  his  success,  and  said  very  little 
of  his  own  transactions,  though  the  answers  he  made  to  our  inquiries 
were  equally  sensible  and  laconic. 


Laurence  Sterne.     1713-176S.     (Manual,  p.  319.) 

'  From  "Tristram  Shandy." 

10  0*   Death  of  Le  Fevre. 

In  a  fortnight  or  three  weeks,  added  my  uncle  Toby,  smiling 

—  he  might  march.  —  He  will  never  march,  an'  please  your  honor,  in 

this  world,    said   the  corporal. He  will    march,    said   my  uncle 

Toby,  rising  up  from  the  side  of  the  bed  with  one  shoe  off: An' 

please  your  honor,  said  the  corporal,  he  will  never  march  but  to  his 
grave:  —  He  shall  march,  cried  my  uncle  Tob}',  marching  the  foot 
which  had  a  shoe  on,  though  without  advancing  an  inch,  —  he  shall 

march  to  his  regiment. He  cannot  stand   it,  said  the  corporal. 

He  shall  be  supported,  said  my  uncle  Toby. He'll  drop  at 

last,  said  the  corporal,   and  what  will  become  of  his   boy.? He 

shall  not  drop,  said   my  uncle  Toby,   fi-^mly.  —  Ah   welladay,  —  do 


A.  D.  1713-1768.         LAURENCE   STERNE,  240 

what  we  can  for  him,  said  Trim,  maintaining  his  point,  —  the  poor 
soul  will  die.     He  shall  not  die,  by  G — d !  cried  my  uncle  Toby. 

—  The  Accusing  Spirit,  which  flew  up  to  Heaven's  chancery  with 

the  oath,  blushed  as  he  gave  it  in and  the  Recording  Angel,  a? 

he  wrote  it  down,  dropped  a  tear  upon  the  word,  and  blotted  it  out 
forever.  \  * 

My  uncle  Toby  went  to  his  bureau  —  put  his  purse  into  his 

breeches'  pocket,  and  having  ordered  the  corporal  to  go  early  in  the 
morning  for  a  physician  —  he  went  to  bed,  and  fell  asleep. 

The  sun  looked  bright  the  morning  after  to  every  eye  in  the  village 
but  Le  Fevre's,  and  his  afflicted  son's  ;  the  hand  of  Death  pressed  heavy 
upon  his  eyelids,  and  hardly  could  the  wheel  at  the  cistern  turn  round 
its  circle,  when  my  uncle  Toby,  who  had  rose  up  an  hour  before  his 
wonted  time,  entered  the  lieutenant's  room,  and  without  preface  or 
apology,  sat  himself  down  upon  the  chair  by  the  bedside,  and,  inde- 
pendently of  all  modes  and  customs,  opened  the  curtain  in  the  man- 
ner an  old  friend  and  brother  officer  would  have  done  it,  and  asked 
him  how  he  did  —  how  he  had  rested  in  the  night  —  what  was  his  com- 
plaint—  where  was  his  pain  —  and  what  he  could  do  to  help  him?  — 
and  without  giving  him  time  to  answer  any  one  of  the  inquiries,  went 
on,  and  told  him  of  the  little  plan  which  he  had  been  concerting  with 
the  corporal  the  night  before  for  him. 

—  You  shall  go  home  directly,  Le  Fevre,  said  my  uncle  Toby,  to  my 
house — and  we'll  send  for  a  doctor  , to  see  what's  the  matter  —  and 
we'll  have  an  apothecary, — and  the  corporal  shall  be  your  nurse, — 
and  I'll  be  your  servant,  Le  Fevre. 

There  was  a  frankness  in  my  uncle  Toby,  —  not  the  effect  of  famil- 
iarity, — but  the  cause  of  it,  which  let  you  at  once  into  his  soul,  and 
showed  you  the  goodness  of  his  nature;  to  this,  there  was  something 
in  his  looks,  and  voice,  and  inanner,  superadded,  which  eternally 
beckoned  to  the  unfortunate  to  come  and  take  shelter  under  him ;  so 
that  before  my  uncle  Toby  had  half  finished  the  kind  offers  he  was 
making  to  the  father,  the  son  had  insensibly  pressed  up  close  to  his 
knees,  and  had  taken  hold  of  the  breast  of  his  coat,  and  was  pull- 
ing it  towards  him.  The  blood  and  spirits  of  Le  Fevre,  which  were 
waxing  cold  and  slow  within  him,  and  were  retreating  to  their  last 
citadel,  the  heart,  rallied  back,  —  the  film  forsook  his  eyes  for  a  mo- 
ment,—  he  looked  up  wistfully  in  my  uncle  Toby's  face  —  then  cast  a 
look  upon  his  boy,  —  and  that  ligament,  fine  as  it  was,  was  never 
broken. 

Nature  instantly  ebbed  again, the  film  returned   to  its  place 

the  pulse  fluttered stopped went-on throbbe  1 

stopped  again moved stopped shall  I  go  on.? —       No. 

1  The  sentiment  of  this  paragraph  has  been  characterized  by  an  eminent  American  divine  a>  the  a-osi 
beaulii'ul  in  English  literature. 


250  OLIVER   GOLDSMITH,  Chap.  XVL 

OiJVER  Goldsmith.     1728-1774.     (Manual,  p.  321.) 
From  "The  Citizen  of  the  World." 

107 •   The  Stern  Moralist. 

Though  fond  of*  many  acquaintances,  I  desire  an  intimacy  onlj 
with  a  few.  The  man  in  black,  whom  I  have  often  mentioned,  is  one 
whose  friendship  I  could  wish  to  acquire,  because  he  possesses  my 
esteem.         *         *         *         * 

In  one  of  our  late  excursions  into  the  country,  happening  to  dis- 
course upon  the  provision  that  was  made  for  the  poor  in  England, 
he  seemed  amazed  how  any  of  his  countrymen  could  be  so  foolishly 
weak  as  to  relieve  occasional  objects  of  charity,  when  the  laws  had 
made  such  ample  provision  for  their  support.  In  every  parish  house, 
says  he,  the  poor  are  supplied  with  food,  clothes,  fire,  and  a  bed  to 
lie  on ;  they  want  no  more,  I  desire  no  more  myself;  yet  still  they 
seem  discontented.  I  am  surprised  at  the  inactivity  of  our  magis- 
trates, in  not  taking  up  such  vagrants,  who  are  only  a  weight  upon 
the  industrious.  I  am  surprised  that  the  people  are  found  to  relieve 
them,  when  they  must  be  at  the  same  tiine  sensible  that  it,  in  some 
measure,  encourages  idleness,  extravagance,  and  imposture.  Were  I 
to  advise  any  man  for  whom  I  had  the  least  regard,  I  would  caution 
him,  by  all  means,  not  to  be  imposed  upon  by  their  false  pretences  • 
let  me  assure  you,  sir,  they  are  impostors,  every  one  of  them,  and 
rather  merit  a  prison  than  relief. 

He  was  proceeding  in  this  strain  earnestly,  to  dissuade  me  from  an 
imprudence  of  which  I  am  seldom  guilty,  when  an  old  man,  who  still 
had  about  him  the  remnants  of  tattered  finery,  implored  our  compas- 
sion. He  assured  us  that  he  was  no  common  beggar,  but  forced  into  the 
shameful  profession  to  support  a  dying  wife,  and  five  hungry  children. 
Being  prepossessed  against  such  falsehoods,  his  story  had  not  the  least 
influence  upon  me ;  but  it  was  quite  otherwise  wath  the  man  in  black. 
I  could  see  it  visibly  operate  upon  his  countenance,  and  effectually 
interrupt  his  harangue.  I  could  easily  perceive  that  his  heart  burned 
to  relieve  the  five  starving  children,  but  he  seemed  ashamed  to  dis- 
cover his  weakness  to  me.  While  he  thus  hesitated  between  compas- 
sion and  pride,  I  pretended  to  look  another  way,  and  he  seized  this 
opportunity  of  giving  the  poor  petitioner  a  piece  of  silver,  bidding 
him,  at  the  same  time,  in  order  that  I  should  not  hear,  go  work  ibr 
his  bread,  and  not  tease  passengers  with  such  impertinent  falsehoods 
for  the  future. 


10  S,    A  Fable. 

Once  upon  a  time,  a  Giant  and  a  Dwarf  were  friends,  and  kept 
t  )gether.  They  made  a  bargain  that  they  would  never  forsake  each 
other,  but  go  seek  adventures.     The  first  battle  they  fought  was  with 


^.  D.  1728-1774.         OLIVER    OOLDSMITK.  251 

two  Saracens,  and  the  Dwarf,  who  was  very  courageous,  dealt  one 
of  the  champions  a  most  angry  blow.  It  did  the  Saracen  but  verv 
little  injury,  who,  lifting  up  his  sword,  fairly  struck  off  the  poor 
Dwarfs  ann.  He  was  now  in  a  woful  plight;  but  the  Giant  coming 
to  his  assistance,  in  a  short  time  left  the  two  Saracens  dead  on  the 
plain,  and  the  Dwarf  cut  off  the  dead  man's  head  out  of  spite.  They 
then  travelled  on  to  another  adventure.  This  was  against  three 
bloody-minded  Satyrs,  who  were  carrying  away  a  damsel  in  distress. 
The  Dwarf  was  not  quite  so  fierce  now  as  before;  but  for  all  that, 
struck  the  first  blow;  which  was  returned  by  another,  that  knocked 
out  his  eve  :  but  the  Giant  was  soon  up  with  them,  and  had  they  not 
fled,  would  certainly  have  killed  them  every  one.  They  were  all  very 
joyful  for  this  victory,  and  the  damsel  who  was  relieved  fell  in  love 
with  the  Giant,  and  married  him.  They  now  travelled  far,  and  farther 
than  I  can  ttfl,  till  they  met  with  a  company  of  robbers.  The  Giant, 
for  the  first  Lime,  was  foremost  now;  but  the  Dwarf  was  not  far  be- 
hind. The  battle  was  stout  and  long.  Wherever  the  Giant  came,  all 
fell  before  him;  but  the  Dwarf  had  like  to  have  been  killed  more  than 
once.  At  last  the  victory  declared  for  the  two  adventurers  :  but  the 
Dwarf  lost  his  leg.  The  Dwarf  had  now  lost  an  arm,  a  leg,  and  an 
eye,  while  the  Giant  was  without  a  single  wound.  Upon  which  he 
cried  out  to  his  little  companion:  '"My  little  hero,  this  is  glorious 
sport;  let  us  get  one  victory  more,  and  then  we  shall  have  honor  for- 
ever."—  "No,"  cries  the  Dwarf,  who  was  by  this  time  grown  wiser, 
'■'■no,  I  declare  off;  I'll  fight  no  more:  for  I  find  in  every  battle  that 
y-    I  get  all  the  honor  and  rewards,  but  all  the  blows  fall  upon  me." 


From  "The  Traveller." 

lOr),    France. 

To  kinder  skies,  where  gentler  manners  reign, 
I  turn  ;  and  France  displays  her  bright  domain. 
Gay  sprightly  land  of  mirth  and  social  ease, 
Pleased  with  thyself,  whom  all  the  world  can  please. 
How  often  have  I  led  thj^  sportive  choir, 
With  tuneless  pipe,  beside  the  murmuring  Loire  I 
Where  shading  elms  along  the  margin  grew, 
And  freshened  from  the  wave  the  zephyr  flew; 
And  haply,  though  my  harsh  touch,  faltering  still, 
Bat  mocked  all  tune,  and  marred  the  dancer's  skill, 
Yet  would  the  village  praise  my  wondrous  power, 
And  dance,  forgetful  of  the  noontide  hour. 
Alike  all  ages.     Dames  of  ancient  days 
Have  led  their  children  through  the  mirthful  maze; 
And  the  gay  grandsire,  skilled  in  gestic  lore, 
Has  frisked  beneath  the  burden  of  threescore- 


252  OLIVER   GOLDSMITH.  Chap.  XVI 

So  blest  a  life  \:hese  thoughtless  realms  display, 
Thus  idlj  busy  rolls  their  world  away; 
Theirs  are  those  arts  that  mind  to  mind  endear, 
For  honor  forms  the  social  temper  here  : 
Honor,  that  praise  which  real  merit  gains 
Or  e'en  imaginary  worth  obtains, 
Here  passes  current;  paid  from  hand  to  hand, 
It  shifts  in  splendid  traffic  round  the  land  : 
From  courts,  to  camps,  to  cottages  it  strAys, 
And  all  are  taught  an  avarice  of  praise; 
They  please,  are  pleased,  they  give  to  get  esteem, 
Till,  seeming  blest,  they  grow  to  what  they  seem. 

But  while  this  softer  art  their  bliss  supplies, 
It  gives  their  follies  also  room  to  rise; 
For  praise  too  dearly  loved,  or  warmly  sought. 
Enfeebles  all  internal  strength  of  thought; 
And  the  weak  soul,  within  itself  unblest, 
Leans  for  all  pleasure  on  another's  breast. 
Hence  ostentation  here,  with  tawdry  art, 
Pants  for  the  vulgar  praise  which  fools  impart ; 
Here  vanity  assumes  her  pert  grimace, 
And  trims  her  robes  of  frieze  with  copper  lace; 
Here  beggar  pride  defrauds  her  daily  cheer, 
To  boast  one  splendid  banquet  once  a  year; 
The  mind  still  turns  where  shifting  fashion  draws, 
Nor  weighs  the  solid  worth  of  self-applause. 


From  "The  Deserted  Village." 

200»   The  Village  Inn. 

Near  yonder  thorn,  that  lifts  its  head  on  high, 

Where  once  the  sign-post  caught  the  passing  eye. 

Low  lies  that  house  where  nut-brown  draughts  inspired, 

Where  gray-beard  mirth  and  smiling  toil  retired. 

Where  village  statesmen  talked  with  looks  profound. 

And  news  much  older  than  their  ale  went  round ; 

Imagination  fondly  stoops  to  trace 

The  parlor  splendors  of  that  festive  place; 

The  white-washed  wall,  the  nicely  sanded  floor. 

The  varnished  clock  that  clicked  behind  the  door; 

The  chest  contrived  a  double  debt  to  pay, 

A  bed  by  night,  a  chest  of  drawers  by  day; 

The  pictures  placed  for  ornament  and  use. 

The  twelve  good  rules,  the  royal  game  of  goose ; 

The  hearth,  except  when  winter  chilled  the  day, 

With  aspen  boughs,  and  flowers,  and  fennel,  gay; 


A.  D.  1728-1774.  OLIVER   GOLDSMITH.  253 

While  broken  tea-cups,  wisely  kept  for  show, 
Rano-ed  o'er  the  chimney,  glistened  in  a  row. 

Vain  transitory  splendors !  could  not  all 
Reprieve  the  tottering  mansion  from  its  fall  ? 
Obscure  its  sinks,  nor  shall  it  more  impart 
An  hour's  importance  to  the  poor  man's  heart, 
Thither  no  more  the  peasant  shall  repair 
To  sweet  oblivion  of  his  daily  care; 
No  more  the  farmer's  news,  the  barber's  tale. 
No  more  the  woodman's  ballad  shall  prevail ; 
No  more  the  smith  his  dusky  brow  shall  clear, 
Relax  his  pond'rous  strength,  and  lean  to  hear; 
The  host  himself  no  longer  shall  be  found, 
Careful  to  see  the  mantling  bliss  go  round; 
Nor  the  coy  maid,  half  willing  to  be  prest, 
Shall  kiss  the  cup  to  pass  it  to  the  rest. 


254  ISAAC   WATTS.  Ciiap.  XVII. 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

HISTORICAL,   MORAL,   POLITICAL,    AND    THEOLOGICAL  WRITERS 
OF  THE  EIGHTEENTH  CENTURY. 


Isaac  Watts.     1674-1728.     (Manual,  p.  288.) 
From  his  Lyrics.    Book  I. 

201,    The  Earnest  Student. 

"Infinite  Truth,  the  life  of  my  desires, 

Come  from  the  sky,  and  join  thyself  to  me  : 
I'm  tired  with  hearing,  and  this  reading  tires ; 
But  never  tired  of  telling  thee, 
*Tis  thy  fair  face  alone  my  spirit  burns  to  see. 

"Speak  to  my  soul,  alone;  no  other  hand 

Shall  mark  my  path  out  with  delusive  art : 
All  nature,  silent  in  His  presence,  stand; 
Creatures,  be  dumb  at  his  command, 
And  leave  his  single  voice  to  whisper  to  my  heart. 

"Retire,  my  soul,  within  thyself  retire, 

Away  from  sense  and  every  outward  show : 
Now  let  my  thoughts  to  loftier  themes  aspire ; 
My  knowledge  now  on  wheels  of  fire, 
May  mount  and  spread  above,  surveying  all  below." 

The  Lord  grows  lavish  of  His  heavenly  light, 

And  pours  whole  floods  on  such  a  mind  as  this: 
Fled  from  the  eyes,  she  gains  a  piercing  sight, 
She  dives  into  the  infinite. 
And  sees  unutterable  things  in  that  unknown  abyss. 


Philip  Doddridge,     i 702-1 751.     (Manual,  p.  345.) 

202*    Obligation  of  Harmony  among  Christians. 

Among  many  other  good  affections  which  the  perusal  of  this  historj' 
may  naturally  inspire,  and  wljich  I  have  endeavored  often  to  suggest 
in  the   improvements  which  conclude  each  section,  I  cannot  forbear 


A.  D.  1711-1776.  DAVID  HUME.  25a 

mentioning  one  more;  I  mean  a  generous  and  cordial  love  to  our 
fellow-Christians  of  every  rank  and  denomination.  I  never  reflect 
upon  the  New  Testament  in  this  view,  but  I  find  it  difficult  to  conceive 
how  so  much  of  a  contrary  temper  should  ever  have  prevailed  amongst 
such  multitudes  who  have  professed  religiously  to  receive  it,  yea, 
whose  office  hath  been  to  interpret  and  enforce  it.  To  have  enlisted 
under  the  banner  of  Jesus,  to  have  felt  his  love,  to  have  espoused  his 
interest,  to  labor  to  serve  him,  to  aspire  after  the  enjoyment  of  him, 
should,  methinks,  appear  to  every  one,  even  on  the  slightest  reflection, 
a  bond  of  union  too  strong  to  be  broken  by  the  different  apprehen- 
sions that  one  or  another  of  us  may  entertain  (perhaps,  too,  after 
diligent  inquiry)  concerning  the  exact  sense  of  some  of  the  doctrines 
he  taught,  or  the  circumstantial  forms  of  some  of  his  institutions.  A 
humble  sense  of  our  own  weakness,  and  of  the  many  imperfections  of 
our  character,  which  will  never  be  more  deeply  felt  than  when  we 
consider  ourselves  as  standing  before  our  Divine  Master,  will  dispose 
us  to  mutual  candor,  will  guard  us  against  the  indecency  of  contending 
in  his  presence,  and  will,  as  St.  Paul,  with  admirable  spirit,  expresses 
it,  dispose  us  to  receive  one  another,  as  Christ  hath  received  us. 
Yea,  our  hearts  will  be  so  eagerl_y  desirous  of  employing  our  life  in 
serving  him  to  the  best  purpose  we  can,  that  we  shall  dread  the 
thought  of  misspending,  in  our  mutual  animosities,  accusations,  and 
complaints,  the  time  that  was  given  us  for  ends  so  much  nobler,  and 
which  is  capable  of  being  employed  to  the  honor  of  our  common 
Lord,  and  for  the  benefit  of  the  church  and  the  world. 


Epigram  on  his  Family  Motto,  —  '■'■Dum  vivimus  vivamus" 

Live  while  you  live,  the  epicure  would  say, 
And  seize  the  pleasures  of  the  present  day ; 
Live  while  you  live,  the  sacred  preacher  cries, 
And  give  to  God  each  moment  as  it  flies. 
Lord,  in  my  view  let  both  united  be,  — 
I  live  in  pleasure  when  I  live  to  thee. 


David  Hume.     1711-1776.     (Manual,  p.  326.) 

203t    Character  of  Queen  Elizabeth. 

There  are  few  great  personages  in  history  who  have  been  more  ex- 
posed to  the  calumny  of  enemies,  and  the  adulation  of  friends,  than 
Queen  Elizabeth,  and  yet  there  is  scarce  any  whose  reputation  has  been 
more  certainly  determined  by  the  unanimous  consent  of  posterity. 
The  unusual  length  of  her  administration,  and  the  strong  features  of 
her  character,  were  able  to  overcome  all  prejudices;  and  obliging  hei 
detractors  to  abate  much  of  their  invectives,  and  her  admirejs  some 


256  DAVID  HUME.  Cuap.  XVII 

what  of  their  panegyrics,  have,  at  last,  in  spite  of  political  factions, 
and,  what  is  more,  of  religious  animosities,  produced  a  uniform  judg- 
ment with  regard  to  her  conduct.  Her  vigor,  her  constancy,  hei 
magnanimity,  her  penetration,  vigilance,  address,  are  allowed  to  merit 
the  highest  praises,  and  appear  not  to  have  been  surpassed  by  any 
person  who  ever  filled  a  throne  :  a  conduct  less  rigorous,  less  imperi- 
ous, more  sincere,  more  indulgent  to  her  people,  would  have  been 
requisite  to  form  a  perfect  character.  By  the  force  of  her  mind,  she 
controlled  all  her  more  active  and  stronger  qualities,  and  prevented 
them  from  running  into  excess.  Her  heroism  was  exempt  from  all 
temerity,  her  frugality  from  avarice,  her  friendship  from  partiality, 
her  active  temper  from  turbulency  and  a  vain  ambition.  She  guarded 
not  herself  with  equal  care  or  equal  success  from  lesser  infirmities  — 
the  rivalship  of  beauty,  the  desire  of  admiration,  the  jealousy  of  love, 
and  the  sallies  of  anger. 

Her  singular  talents  for  government  were  founded  equally  on  her 
temper  and  on  her  capacity.  Endowed  with  a  great  command  over 
herself,  she  soon  obtained  an  uncontrolled  ascendant  over  her  people; 
and  while  she  merited  all  their  esteem  by  her  real  virtues,  she  also 
enjoyed  their  affection  by  her  pretended  ones.  Few  sovereigns  of 
England  succeeded  to  the  throne  in  more  difficult  circumstances;  and 
none  ever  conducted  the  governinent  with  such  uniform  success  and 
felicity.  Though  unacquainted  with  the  practice  of  toleration,  the 
true  secret  for  managing  religious  factions,  she  preserved  her  people, 
by  her  superior  prudence,  from  those  confusions  in  which  theological 
controversies  had  involved  all  the  neighboring  nations;  and  though 
her  enemies  were  the  most  powerful  princes  of  Europe,  the  most  ac- 
tive, the  most  enterprising,  the  least  scrupulous,  she  was  able  by  her 
vigor  to  make  deep  impressions  on  their  state ;  her  own  greatness 
meanwhile  remained  untouched  and  unimpaired. 

The  wise  ministers  and  brave  warriors  who  flourished  during  her 
reign  share  the  praise  of  her  success;  but  instead  of  lessening  the 
applause  due  to  her,  they  make  great  addition  to  it.  They  owed,  all 
of  them,  their  advancement  to  her  choice;  they  were  supported  by  her 
constancy;  and  with  all  their  ability  they  were  never  able  to  acquire 
any  undue  ascendant  over  her.  In  her  family,  in  her  court,  in  her 
kingdom,  she  remained  equally  mistress  :  the  force  of  the  tender  pas- 
sions was  great  over  her,  but  the  force  of  her  mind  was  still  superior; 
and  the  combat  which  her  victory  visibly  cost  her,  serves  only  to  dis- 
play the  firmness  of  her  resolution,  and  the  loftiness  of  her  ambitious 
sentiments. 

The  fame  of  this  princess,  though  it  has  surmounted  the  prejudices 
both  of  faction  and  bigotry,  yet  lies  still  exposed  to  another  prejudice, 
which  is  more  durable  because  more  natural,  and  which,  according 
to  the  different  views  in  which  we  survey  her,  is  capable  either  of 
exalting  beyond  measure,  or  diminishing  the  lustre  of  her  character. 
This  prejudice  is  founded  on  the  consideration  of  her  sex.  When 
we  contemplate  her  as  a  woman,  we  are  apt  to  be  struck  with  the 


A.  D.  1711-1770.  DAVID   HUME.  257 

highest  admiration  of  her  great  qualities  and  extensive  capacity;  but 
we  are  also  apt  to  require  some  more  softness  of  disposition,  some 
greater  lenity  of  temper,  some  of  those  amiable  weaknesses  by  which 
her  sex  is  distinguished.  But  the  true  method  of  estimating  her 
merit  is  to  lay  aside  all  these  considerations,  and  consider  her  merelj/ 
as  a  rational  being,  placed  in  authority,  and  intrusted  with  the  gov- 
ernment of  mankind.  We  may  find  it  difficult  to  reconcile  our  fancy 
to  her  as  a  wife  or  a  mistress;  but  her  qualities  as  a  sovereign,  though 
with  some  considerable  exceptions,  are  the  object  of  undisputed  ap- 
plause and  approbation. 


204,   On  the  Middle  Station  of  Life. 

The  moral  of  the  following  fable  will  easily  discover  itself  without 
my  explaining  it.  One  rivulet  meeting  another,  with  whom  he  had 
been  long  united  in  strictest  amity,  with  noisy  haughtiness  and  dis- 
dain thi.s  bespoke  him:  —  "What,  brother!  still  in  the  same  state ! 
still  low  and  creeping!  Are  you  not  ashamed  when  you  behold  me, 
who,  though  lately  in  a  like  condition  with  you,  am  now  become  a 
great  river,  and  shall  shortly  be  able  to  rival  the  Danube  or  the  Rhine, 
provided  those  friendly  rains  continue  which  have  favored  my  banks, 
but  neglected  yours.?"  "  \iery  true,"  replies  the  humble  rivulet, 
"you  are  now,  indeed,  swollen  to  a  great  size;  but  methinks  you  are 
become  withal  somewhat  turbulent  and  muddy.  I  am  contented  with 
my  low  condition  and  my  purity." 

Instead  of  commenting  upon  this  fable,  I  shall  take  occasion  from 
it  to  compare  the  different  stations  of  life,  and  to  persuade  such  of  my 
readers  as  are  placed  in  the  middle  station  to  be  satisfied  with  it,  as 
the  most  elisfible  of  all  others.  These  form  the  most  numerous  rank 
of  men  that  can  be  supposed  susceptible  of  philosophy,  and  therefore 
all  discourses  of  morality  ought  principally  to  be  addressed  to  them. 
The  great  are  too  much  immersed  in  pleasure,  and  the  poor  too  much 
occupied  in  providing  for  the  necessities  of  life,  to  hearken  to  the 
calm  voice  of  reason.  The  middle  station,  as  it  is  most  happy  in 
many  respects,  so  particularly  in  this,  that  a  man  placed  in  it  can, 
with  the  greatest  leisure,  consider  his  own  happiness,  and  reap  a  new 
enjoyment,  from  comparing  his  situation  with  that  of  persons  above 
or  below  him. 

Agur's  prayer  is  sufficiently  noted —  "Two  things  have  I  required 
of  thee ;  deny  me  them  not  before  I  die :  Remove  far  from  me  vanity 
and  lies;  give  me  neither  poverty  nor  riches;  feed  me  with  food  con- 
venient for  me,  lest  I  be  full  and  deny  thee,  and  say,  who  is  the  Lord? 
or  lest  I  be  poor,  and  steal,  and  take  the  name  of  my  God  in  vain." 
The  middle  station  is  here  justly  recommended,  as  afibrding  the  full- 
est security  for  virtue;  and  I  may  also  add,  that  it  gives  opportunity 
for  the  most  ample  exercise  of  it,  and  furnishes  employment  for  everj 
good  quality  which  we  can  possibly  be  possessed  of. 

17 


258  WILLIAM  ROBEIITSON.  Chap.  XVIL 

William  Robertson.     1 721-1793.     (Manual,  p.  32S.) 

20s,    Execution  of  Mary,  Queen  of  Scots. 

On  Tuesdaj'-,  the  7th  of  February,  1587,  the  two  earls  arrived  ai 
Fotheringaj,  and  demanded  access  to  the  queen,  read  in  her  presence 
the  warrant  for  execution,  and  required  her  to  prepare  to  die  next 
morning.  Marj  heard  them  to  the  end  without  emotion,  and  cross- 
ing herself  in  the  name  of  the  Father,  and  of  the  Son,  and  of  the  Holy 
Ghost,  "That  soul,"  srid  she,  "is  not  worthy  the  joys  of  heaven, 
which  repines  because  the  body  must  endure  the  stroke  of  the  execu- 
tioner; and  though  I  did  not  expect  that  the  Qjaeen  of  England  would 
set  the  first  example  of  violating  the  sacred  person  of  a  sovereign 
prince,  I  willingly  submit  to  that  w^hich  Providence  has  decreed  to  be 
my  lot."  And  laying  her  hand  on  a  Bible,  which  happened  to  be  near 
her,  she  solemnly  protested  that  she  was  innocent  of  that  conspiracy 
which  Babington  had  carried  on  against  Elizabeth's  life.  She  then 
mentioned  the  request  contained  in  her  letter  to  Elizabeth,  but  ob- 
tained no  satisfactory  answer.  She  entreated  with  particular  earnest- 
ness, that  now  in  her  last  moment,  her  almoner  might  be  suffered  to 
attend  her,  and  that  she  might  enjoy  the  consolation  of  those  pious 
institutions  prescribed  by  her  religion.  Even  this  favor,  which  is 
usually  granted  to  the  vilest  criminal,  was  absolutely  denied.     *     *     * 

With  much  difficulty,  and  after  many  entreaties,  she  prevailed  on 
the  two  earls  to  allow  Melvil,  together  with  three  of  her  men-servants, 
and  two  of  her  maids,  to  attend  her  to  the  scaffold.  It  was  erected  in 
the  same  hall  where  she  had  been  tried,  raised  a  little  above  the  floor, 
and  covered,  as  well  as  a  chair,  the  cushion,  and  block,  with  black 
cloth.  Mary  mounted  the  steps  with  alacrity,  beheld  all  this  appara- 
tus of  death  with  an  unaltered  countenance,  and  signing  herself  with 
the  cross,  she  sat  down  in  the  chair.  Beale  read  the  warrant  for  ex- 
ecution with  a  loud  voice,  to  which  she  listened  with  a  careless  air, 
and  like  one  occupied  in  other  thoughts.  Then  the  Dean  of  Peter- 
borough began  a  devout  discourse,  suitable  to  her  present  condition, 
and  offered  up  prayers  to  Heaven  in  her  behalf;  but  she  declared  that 
she  could  not  in  conscience  hearken  to  the  one,  nor  join  with  the 
other;  and  falling  on  her  knees,  repeated  a  Latin  prayer.  When  the 
Dean  had  finished  his  devotions,  she,  with  an  audible  voice,  and  in 
(he  English  tongue,  recommended  unto  God  the  afflicted  state  of  the 
c  hurch,  and  prayed  for  prosperity  to  her  son,  and  for  a  long  life  and 
peaceable  reign  to  Elizabeth.  She  declared  that  she  hoped  for  mercy 
only  through  the  death  of  Christ,  at  the  foot  of  whose  image  she  now 
willingly  shed  her  blood,  and  lifting  up,  and  kissing  the  crucifix,  she 
thus  addressed  it:  "As  thy  arms,  O  Jesus,  were  extended  on  'tlie 
cross;  so  with  the  outstretched  arms  of  thy  mercy  receive  me,  a:u] 
forgive  mv  sins." 


■is 


She  then   prepared  for  the  block,  by  taking  off  her  veil  and   upjiei 


A. D.  1737-1794.  EDWARD    GIBBON.  259 

garments;  and  one  of  the  executioners  rudely  endeavoring  to  assist, 
she  gently  checked  him,  and  said,  with  a  smile,  that  she  had  not  been 
accustomed  to  undress  before  so  many  spectators,  nnr  to  be  served  by 
such  valets.  With  calm  but  undaunted  fortitude,  she  laid  her  neck 
on  the  block;  and  while  one  executioner  held  her  hands,  the  other,  at 
the  second  stroke,  cut  off  her  head,  which  falling  out  of  its  attire,  dis- 
covered her  hair  already  grown  quite  gray  with  cares  and  sorrows. 
The  executioner  held  it  up  still  streaming  with  blood,  and  the  Dean 
crying  out,  "  So  perish  all  Qiieen  Elizabeth's  enemies,"  the  Earl  of 
Kent  alone  answered,  Amen.  The  rest  of  the  spectators  continued 
silent,  and  drowned  in  tears,  being  incapable,  at  that  moment,  of  any 
other  sentiments  but  those  of  pity  or  admiration. 


Edward  Gibbon,     i  737-1 794.     (Manual,  p.  329.) 

From  "  His  Autobiography." 
20S»    Conception  and  Completion  of  his  History. 

It  was  at  Rome,  on  the  15th  of  October,  1764,  as  I  sat  musing  amidst 
the  ruins  of  the  Capitol,  while  the  bai-efooted  friars  were  sinsfino 
vespers  in  the  temple  of  Jupiter,  that  the  idea  of  writing  the  decline 
and  fall  of  the  city  first  started  to  my  mind.  But  my  original  plan 
was  circumscribed  to  the  decay  of  the  city  rather  than  of  the  empire ; 
and  though  my  reading  and  reflections  began  to  point  towards  that 
object,  some  years  elapsed,  and  several  avocations  intervened,  before 
I  was  seriously  engaged  in  the  execution  of  that  laborious  work.     *     * 

I  have  presumed  to  mark  the  moment  of  conception  :  I  shall  now 
commemorate  the  hour  of  my  final  deliverance.  It  was  on  the  day, 
or  rather  night,  of  the  27th  of  June,  1787,  between  the  hours  of  eleven 
and  twelve,  that  I  wrote  the  last  lines  of  the  last  page,  in  a  summer- 
house  in  my  garden.  After  laying  down  my  pen  I  took  several  turns 
in  a  berceau^  or  covered  walk  of  acacias,  which  commands  a  prospect 
of  the  country,  the  lake,  and  the  mountains.  The  air  was  temperate, 
the  sky  was  serene,  the  silver  orb  of  the  moon  was  reflected  froin  the 
waters,  and  all  nature  was  silent.  I  will  not  dissemble  the  first  emo- 
tions of  joy  on  recovery  of  my  freedom,  and,  perhaps,  the  establish- 
ment of  my  fame.  But  my  pride  was  soon  humbled,  and  a  sober  mel- 
ancholy was  spread  over  my  mind,  by  the  idea  that  I  had  taken  an 
everlasting  leave  of  an  old  and  agreeable  companion,  and  that,  what- 
soever might  be  the  future  date  of  my  history,  the  life  of  the  historian 
must  be  short  and  precarious.  I  will  add  two  facts,  which  have  sel- 
dom occurred  in  the  composition  of  six,  or  at  least  of  five  quartos. 
I.  My  first  rough  manuscript,  without  any  intermediate  copy,  has 
been  sent  to  the  press.  2.  Not  a  sheet  has  been  seen  by  any  human 
eyes,  excepting  those  of  the  author  and  the  printer:  the  faults  and 
the  merits  are  exclusively  my  own. 


260  EDWARD    GIBBON.  Chap.  XVII. 

From  '*  The  Decline  and  Fall  of  the  Roman  Empire." 

207,    Charlemagne. 

The  appellation  of  Great  has  been  often  bestowed,  and  sometimes 
deserved,  but  Charlemagne  is  the  only  prince  in  whose  favor  the  title 
has  been  indissolublj  blended  with  the  name.  That  name,  with  the 
addition  of  saint,  is  inserted  in  the  Roman  calendar;  and  the  saint, 
by  a  rare  felicity,  is  crowned  with  the  praises  of  the  historians  and 
philosophers  of  an  enlightened  age.  His  real  merit  is  doubtless  en- 
nanced  by  the  barbarism  of  the  nation  and  the  times  from  which  he 
emerged  :  but  the  apparent  magnitude  of  an  object  is  likewise  enlarged 
by  an  unequal  comparison ;  and  the  ruins  of  Palmj^ra  derive  a  casual 
splendor  from  the  nakedness  of  the  surrounding  desert.  Without  in- 
justice to  his  fame  I  may  discern  some  blemishes  in  the  sanctity  and 
greatness  of  the  restorer  of  the  western  empire.  *  *  *  * 
I  shall  be  scarcely  permitted  to  accuse  the  ambition  of  a  conqueror; 
but  in  a  day  of  equal  retribution  the  sons  of  his  brother  Carloman, 
the  Merovingian  princes  of  Aquitain,  and  the  four  thousand  live 
hundred  Saxons  who  were  beheaded  on  the  same  spot,  would  have 
something  to  allege  against  the  justice  and  humanity  of  Charlemagne. 
His  treatment  of  the  vanquished  Saxons  was  an  abuse  of  the  right  of 
conquest:  his  laws  were  not  less  sanguinary  than  his  arms,  and  in  the 
discussion  of  his  motives  whatever  is  subtracted  from  bigotry  must  be 
imputed  to  temper.  The  sedentary  reader  is  amazed  by  h'-^  incessant 
activity  of  mind  and  body;  and  his  subjects  and  enemies  were  not  less 
astonished  at  his  sudden  presence  at  the  moment  when  they  believed 
him  at  the  most  distant  extremity  of  the  empire;  neither  peace  nor 
war,  nor  summer  nor  winter,  were  a  season  of  repose;  and  our  fancy 
cannot  easily  reconcile  the  annals  of  his  reign  with  the  geographj^  of 
his  expeditions.  But  this  activity  was  a  national  rather  than  a  per- 
sonal virtue;  the  vagrant  life  of  a  Frank  was  spent  in  the  chase,  in 
pilgrimage,  in  military  adventures  ;  and  the  journeys  of  Charlemagne 
were  distinguished  only  by  a  more  numerous  tfain  and  a  more  im- 
portant purpose.  *  *  *  *  J  touch  with  reverence  the 
laws  of  Charlemagne,  so  highly  applauded  by  a  respectable  judge. 
They  compose  not  a  system  but  a  series  of  occasional  and  minute 
edicts,  for  the  correction  of  abuses,  the  reformation  of  manners,  the 
economy  of  his  farms,  the  care  of  his  poultry,  and  even  the  sale  of  his 
eggs.  He  wished  to  improve  the  laws  and  the  character  of  the  Franks ; 
and  his  attempts,  however  feeble  and  imperfect,  are  deserving  of 
praise :  the  inveterate  evils  of  the  times  were  suspended  or  mollified 
by  his  government;  but  in  his  institutions  I  can  seldom  discover  the 
general  views  and  the  immortal  sjeirit  of  a  legislator,  who  survives 
himself  for  the  benefit  of  posterity.  The  union  and  stability  of  his 
empire  depended  on  the  life  of  a  single  man  :  he  imitated  the  danger- 
ous practice  of  dividing  his  kingdoms  amongst  his  sons;  and  after 
numerous  diets  the  whole  constitution  was  left  to  fluctuate  between 


A.  D.  1737-1794.  EDWARD    GIBBON.  2G1 

the  disorders  of  anarchy  and  despotism.  His  esteem  for  the  piety  and 
knowledge  of  the  clergy  tempted  him  to  intrust  that  aspiring  order 
with  temporal  dominion  and  civil  jurisdiction;  and  his  son  Lewis, 
when  he  was  stripped  and  degraded  by  the  bishops,  might  accuse,  in 
some  measure,  the  imprudence  of  his  father.  His  laws  enforced  the 
imposition  of  tithes,  because  the  demons  had  proclaimed  in  the  air  that 
the  default  of  payment  had  been  the  cause  of  the  last  scarcity. 

The  literary  merits  of  Charlemagne  are  attested  by  the  foundation 
of  schools,  the  introduction  of  arts,  the  works  which  were  published 
in  his  name,  and  his  familiar  connection  with  the  subjects  and  strangers 
whom  he  invited  to  his  court  to  educate  both  the  prince  and  the  peo- 
ple. His  own  studies  were  tardy,  laborious,  and  imperfect;  if  he 
spoke  Latin  and  understood  Greek,  he  derived  the  rudiments  of 
knowledge  from  conversation  rather  than  from  books :  and  in  his 
mature  age  the  emperor  strove  to  acquire  the  practice  of  writing, 
which  every  peasant  now  learns  in  his  infancy.  The  grammar  and 
logic,  the  music  and  astronomy,  of  the  times,  were  only  cultivated 
as  the  handmaids  of  superstition  ;  but  the  curiosity  of  the  human  mind 
must  ultimately  tend  to  its  improvement,  and  the  encouragement  of 
learning  reflects  the  purest  and  most  pleasing  lustre  on  the  character 
of  Charlemagne.  The  dignity  of  his  person,  the  length  of  his  reign, 
the  prosperity  of  his  arms,  the  vigor  of  his  government,  and  the  rev- 
erence of  distant  nations,  distinguish  him  from  the  royal  crowd;  a\id 
Europe  dates  a  new  era  from  his  restoration  of  the  western  empire. 


208,   Mahomet. 

According  to  the  tradition  of  his  companions,  Mahomet  was  distin- 
guished by  the  beauty  of  his  person  —  an  outward  gift  which  is  seldom 
despised,  except  by  those  to  whom  it  has  been  refused.  Before  he 
spoke,  the  orator  engaged  on  his  side  the  affections  of  a  public  or 
private  audience.  They  applauded  his  commanding  presence,  his 
majestic  aspect,  his  piercing  eye,  his  gracious  smile,  his  flowing  beard, 
his  countenance  that  painted  every  sensation  of  the  soul,  and  his  ges- 
tures that  enforced  each  expression  of  the  tongue.  In  the  familiar 
offices  of  life  he  scrupulously  adhered  to  the  grave  and  ceremonious 
politeness  of  his  country:  his  respectful  attention  to  the  rich  and 
powerful  was  dignified  by  his  condescension  and  affability  to  the 
poorest  citizens  of  Mecca :  the  frankness  of  his  manner  concealed  the 
artifice  of  his  views;  and  the  habits  of  courtesy  were  imputed  to  per- 
gonal friendship  or  universal  benevolence.  His  memory  was  capacious 
and  retentive,  his  wit  easy  and  social,  his  imagination  sublime,  his 
judgment  clear,  rapid,  and  decisive.  He  possessed  the  courage  both 
of  thought  and  action ;  and  although  his  designs  might  gradually 
expand  with  his  success,  the  first  idea  which  he  entertained  of  his 
divine  mission  bears  the  stamp  of  an  original  and   superior  genius. 


202  EDWARD    GIBBON.  Chap.  XVll 

The  son  of  Abdallah  was  educated  in  the  bosom  of  the  noblest  race, 
in  the  use  of  the  purest  dialectof  Arabia  :  and  the  fluency  of  his  speech 
was  corrected  and  enhanced  by  the  practice  of  discreet  and  seasonable 
silence-  With  these  powers  of  eloquence,  Mahomet  was  an  illiterate 
barbarian;  his  youth  had  never  been  instructed  in  the  arts  of  reading 
and  writing:  the  common  ignorance  exempted  him  from  shame  or 
reproach,  but  he  was  reduced  to  a  narrow  circle  of  existence,  and  de- 
prived of  those  faithful  mirrors  which  reflect  to  our  mind  the  minds 
of  sages  and  heroes.  Yet  the  book  of  nature  and  of  man  was  open  to 
his  view;  and  some  fancy  has  been  indulged  in  the  political  and  phil- 
osophical observations  which  are  ascribed  to  the  Arabian  traveller. 
He  compares  the  nations  and  religions  of  the  earth;  discovers  the 
weakness  of  the  Persian  and  Roman  monarchies;  beholds  with  pity 
and  indignation  the  degeneracy  of  the  times;  and  resolves  to  unite, 
under  one  God  and  one  king,  the  invincible  spirit  and  priinitive  vir- 
tues of  the  Arabs.  Our  more  accurate  inquiry  will  suggest,  that 
instead  of  visiting  the  courts,  the  camps,  the  temples  of  the  east,  the 
two  journeys  of  Mahomet  into  Syria  were  confined  to  the  fairs  of 
Bostra  and  Damascus  :  that  he  was  only  thirteen  years  of  age  wljen 
he  accoiTjpanied  the  caravan  of  his  uncle,  and  that  his  duty  compelled 
him  to  return  as  soon  as  he  had  disposed  of  the  merchandise  of  Ca- 
dijah.  In  these  hasty  and  superficial  excursions,  the  eye  of  genius 
might  discern  some  objects  invisible  to  his  grosser  companions ;  some 
seeds  of  knowledge  might  be  cast  upon  a  fruitful  soil;  but  his  igno- 
rance of  the  Syriac  language  must  have  checked  his  curiosity,  and  I 
cannot  perceive  in  the  life  or  writings  of  Mahomet '  that  his  prospect 
was  far  extended  beyond  the  limits  of  the  Arabian  world. 

1  The  form  of  orthography  adopted  by  Gibbon  for  this  name,  is,  by  hi?  own  admission,  an  incorrect 
one,  and  no  authority  whatever  can  be  adduced  in  its  support.  Mahomet  was,  however,  the  spelling  at 
that  time  so  generally  employed,  that  the  historian,  though  aware  of  its  inaccuracy,  did  not  venture  to 
change  it. 

The  more  correct  form  —  Mohammed  —  has  now  become  so  much  more  familiar  among  scholars,  that 
the  former  is  comparatively  rare.  In  accordance,  however,  with  the  principle  adopted  throughout  this 
work,  by  which  the  orthography  of  each  author  quoted  is  retained  unaltered,  it  has  been  deemed  best  to 
make  no  change  in  the  text  of  Gibbon,  and  the  name,  therefore,  stands  as  he  wrote  it. 

The  true  form,  as  derived  from  the  Arabic,  is  the  one  given  by  most  of  the  writers  who  are  acquainted 
with  that  language,  Muhammed.  The  letter  «,  however,  represents  the  short  Arabic  sound  of  the  vowel, 
which  is  analogous  to  the  short  sound  of  the  English  oo  in  book.  This  is  best  given  for  practical  pur- 
poses by  the  ordinary  spelling,  Mohammed;  wh.<.ch  may  be  oonsidered  the  established  ortliograpb; 
among  us. 


A.  D.  1737-1794.  ED  WARD   GIBBON.  263 


200,    Invention  and  Use  of  Gunpowuer. 

The  only  hope  of  salvation  for  the  Greek  empire  and  the  adjacent 
kingdoms,  would  have  been  some  more  powerful  weapon,  some  dis- 
covery in  the  art  of  war,  that  should  give  them  a  decisive  superiority 
over  their  Turkish  foes.  Such  a  weapon  was  in  their  hands ;  such  a 
discovery  had  been  made  in  the  critical  moment  of  their  fate.  The 
chemists  of  China  or  Europe  had  found,  by  casual  or  elaborate  experi- 
ments, that  a  mixture  of  saltpetre,  sulphur,  and  charcoal  produces, 
with  a  spark  of  fire,  a  tremendous  explosion.  It  was  soon  observed, 
that  if  the  expansive  force  were  compressed  in  a  strong  tube,  a  ball 
of  stone  or  iron  might  be  expelled  with  irresistible  and  destructive 
velocity.  The  precise  era  of  the  invention  and  application  of  gun- 
powder is  involved  in  doubtful  traditions  and  equivocal  language;  yet 
we  may  clearly  discern  that  it  was  known  before  the  middle  of  the 
fourteenth  century;  and  that  before  the  end  of  the  same,  the  use  of 
artillery  in  battles  and  sieges,  by  sea  and  land,  was  familiar  to  the 
States  of  Germany,  Italy,  Spain,  France,  and  England.  The  priority 
of  nations  is  of  small  account;  none  could  derive  any  exclusive  benefit 
from  their  previous  or  superior  knowledge ;  and  in  the  common  im- 
provement, they  stood  on  the  same  level  of  relative  power  and  military 
science.  Nor  was  it  possible  to  circumscribe  the  secret  within  the 
pale  of  the  church ;  it  was  disclosed  to  the  Turks  by  the  treachery  of 
apostates  and  the  selfish  policy  of  rivals ;  and  the  sultans  had  sense 
to  adopt,  and  wealth  to  reward,  the  talents  of  a  Christian  engineer. 
The  Genoese,  who  transported  Amurath  into  Europe,  must  be  accused 
as  his  preceptors;  and  it  was  probably  by  their  hands  that  his  cannon 
was  cast  and  directed  at  the  siege  of  Constantinople.  The  first  at- 
tempt was  indeed  unsuccessful;  but  in  the  general  warfare  of  the  age, 
the  advantage  was  on  f/ie/r  side  who  were  most  commonly  the  assail- 
ants;  for  a  while  the  proportion  of  the  attack  and  defence  was  sus- 
pended; and  this  thundering  artillery  was  pointed  against  the  walls 
and  towers  which  had  been  erected  only  to  resist  the  less  potent 
engines  of  antiquity.  By  the  Venetians,  the  use  of  gunpowder  was 
communicated  without  reproach  to  the  sultans  of  Egypt  and  Persia, 
their  allies  against  the  Ottoman  power;  the  secret  was  soon  propa- 
gated to  the  extremities  of  Asia;  and  the  advantage  of  the  European 
was  confined  to  his  easy  victories  over  the  savages  of  the  New  World. 
If  we  contrast  the  rapid  progress  of  this  mischievous  discovery  with 
the  slow  and  laborious  advances  of  reason,  science,  and  the  arts  of 
peace,  a  philosopher,  according  to  his  temper,  will  laugh  or  weep  at 
the  folly  of  mankind. 


264  '  SAMUEL  JOHNSON.  Ohap.  XVII 

Samuel  Johnson,     i  709-1 7S4.    (Manual,  p.  333.) 

2J.0,    Letter  to  the  Earl  of  Chesterfield. 

My  Lord,  —  I  have  been  lately  informed,  by  the  proprietor  of  the 
*' World,"  that  two  papers,  in  which  my  Dictionary  is  recommended 
to  the  public,  were  written  by  your  lordship.  To  be  so  distinguished, 
is  an  honor,  which,  being  very  little  accustomed  to  favors  from  the  great, 
I  know  not  well  how  to  receive,  or  in  what  terms  to  acknowledge. 

When,  upon  some  slight  encouragement,  I  first  visited  your  lord- 
ship, I  was  overpowered,  like  the  rest  of  mankind,  b}^  the  enchant- 
ment of  your  address,  and  could  not  forbear  to  wish  that  I  might 
boast  myself  £,e  vainqueur  du  vaiJiqiceicr  de  la  terre :  '  that  I  might 
obtain  that  regard  for  which  I  saw  the  world  contending;  but  I  found 
my  attendance  so  little  encouraged,  that  neither  pride  nor  modesty 
would  suffer  me  to  continue  it.  When  I  had  once  addressed  3'our 
lordship  in  public,  I  had  exhausted  all  the  art  of  pleasing  which  a 
retired  and  uncourtly  scholar  can  possess.  I  had  done  all  that  I 
could;  and  no  man  is  well  pleased  to  have  his  all  neglected,  be  it 
ever  so  little. 

Seven  j^ears,  my  lord,  have  now  passed  since  I  waited  in  your  out- 
ward rooms,  or  was  repulsed  from  your  door;  during  which  time  I 
have  been  pushing  on  my  work  through  difficulties,  of  which  it  is 
useless  to  complain,  and  have  brought  it,  at  last,  to  the  verge  of  pub- 
lication, without  one  act  of  assistance,  one  word  of  encouragement, 
or  one  smile  of  favor.  Such  treatment  I  did  not  expect,  for  I  never 
had  a  patron  before. 

The  shepherd  in  Virgil  grew  at  last  acquainted  with  Love,  and 
found  him  a  native  of  the  rocks. 

Is  not  a  patron,  my  lord,  one  who  looks  with  unconcern  on  a  man 
struggling  for  life  in  the  water,  and  when  he  has  reached  the  ground, 
encumbers  him  with  help?  The  notice  which  you  have  been  pleased 
to  take  of  my  labors,  had  it  been  early,  had  been  kind ;  but  it  has 
been  delayed  till  I  am  indifferent,  and  cannot  enjoy  it;  till  I  am  soli- 
tary, and  cannot  impart  it;  till  I  am  known,  and  do  not  want  it.  I 
hope  it  is  no  verj'^  cynical  asperity  not  to  confess  obligations  where 
no  benefit  has  been  received,  or  to  be  unwilling  that  the  public  should 
consider  me  as  owing  that  to  a  patron,  which  Providence  has  enabled 
me  to  do  for  myself 

Having  carried  on  my  work  thus  far  with  so  little  obligation  to  any 
favorer  of  learning,  I  shall  not  be  disappointed,  though  I  should  con- 
clude it,  if  less  be  possible,  with  less;  for  I  have  been  long  wakened 
from  that  dream  of  hope,  in  which  I  once  boasted  myself  with  so 
much  exultation. 

My  Lord,  your  Lordship's  most  humble. 

Most  obedient  servant, 

Samuel  Johnson. 

I  The  conqueror  of  the  conqueror  of  the  world. 


A.  D.  1709-1784.  SAMUEL  JOHNSON.  265 


211,   From  the  Preface  to  his  Dictionary. 

In  hope  of  giving  longevity  to  that  which  its  own  nature  forbids 
to  be  immortal,  I  have  devoted  this  book,  the  labor  of  years,  to  the 
honor  of  my  country,  that  we  may  no  longer  yield  the  palm  of  phi- 
lology, without  a  contest,  to  the  nations  of  the  continent.  The  chief 
glory  of  every  people  arises  from  its  authors  :  whether  I  shall  add 
anything  by  my  own  writings  to  the  reputation  of  English  literature, 
must  be  left  to  time ;  much  of  my  life  has  been  lost  under  the  pressures 
of  disease;  much  has  been  trifled  awav;  and  much  has  alwavs  been 
spent  in  provision  for  the  day  that  was  passing  over  me ;  but  I  shall 
not  think  my  employment  useless  or  ignoble,  if,  by  my  assistance, 
foreign  nations  and  distant  ages  gain  access  to  the  propagators 
of  knowledge,  and  understand  the  teachers  of  truth ;  if  my  labors 
aflford  light  to  the  repositories  of  science,  and  add  celebrity  to  Bacon, 
to  Hooker,  to  Milton,  and  to  Boyle. 

When  I  am  animated  by  this  wish,  I  look  with  pleasure  on  my  book, 
'however  defective,  and  deliver  it  to  the  world  with  the  spirit  of  a  man 
that  has  endeavored  well.  That  it  will  immediately  become  popular, 
I  have  not  promised  to  myself;  a  few  wild  blunders  and  risible  absurd- 
ities, from  which  no  work  of  such  mxiltiplicity  was  ever  free,  may  for 
a  time  furnish  folly  with  laughter,  and  harden  ignorance  into  con- 
tempt; but  useful  diligence  will  at  hist  prevail,  and  there  can  never 
be  wanting  some  who  distinguish  desert,  who  will  consider  that  no 
dictionary  of  a  living  tongue  ever  can  be  perfect,  since,  while  it  is 
hastening  to  publication,  some  words  are  budding  and  some  falling 
away ;  that  a  whole  life  cannot  be  spent  upon  syntax  and  etymology, 
and  that  even  a  whole  life  would  not  be  sufficient ;  that  he  whose 
design  includes  whatever  language  can  express,  must  often  speak  of 
what  he  does  not  understand ;  that  a  writer  will  sometimes  be  hurried 
by  eagerness  to  the  end,  and  sometimes  faint  with  weariness  under  a 
task  which  Scaliger  compares  to  the  labors  of  the  anvil  and  the  mine; 
that  what  is  obvious  is  not  always  known,  and  what  is  known  is  not 
always  present;  that  sudden  fits  of  inadvertency  will  surprise  vigi- 
lance, slight  avocations  will  seduce  attention,  and  casual  eclipses  of 
the  mind  will  darken  learning;  and  that  the  writer  shall  often  in  vain 
trace  his  memory  at  the  moment  of  need  for  that  which  yesterday  he 
knew  with  intuitive  readiness,  and  which  will  come  uncalled  into  hi.'i 
thoughts  tomorrow 

From  "The  Rambler." 
212*   The  Right  Improvement  of  Time. 

It  is  usual  for  those  who  are  advised  to  the  attainment  of  any  new 
qualification,  to  look  upon  themselves  as  required  to  change  the  gen- 
eral course  of  their  conduct,  to  dismiss  business,  and  exclude  pleasure, 
and  to  devote  their  days  and  nights  to  a  particular  attentioTi.     But 


2<K1  SAMUEL  JOHNSON.  Chap.  XVII. 

all  common  degrees  of  excellence  are  attainable  at  a  lower  price ;  he 
that  should  steadily  and  resolutely  assign  to  any  science  or  language 
those  interstitial  vacancies  which  intervene  in  the  most  crowded 
variety  of  diversion  or  employment,  would  find  everj-  day  new  irra- 
diations of  knowledge,  and  discover  how  much  more  is  to  be  hoped 
from  frequency  and  perseverance,  than  from  violent  efforts  and  sud- 
den desires ;  efforts  which  are  soon  remitted  when  they  encounter 
difRculty,  and  desires  which,  if  they  are  indulged  too  often,  will  shake 
off  the  authority  of  reason,  and  range  capriciously  from  one  object  to 
another. 

The  disposition  to  defer  every  important  design  to  a  time  of  leisure 
and  a  state  of  settled  uniformity,  proceeds  generally  from  a  false  esti- 
mate of  the  human  power.  If  we  except  those  gigantic  and  stupen- 
dous intelligences  who  are  said  to  grasp  a  system  by  intuition,  and 
bound  forward  from  one  series  of  conclusions  to  another,  without  reg- 
ular steps  through  intermediate  propositions,  the  most  successful  stu- 
dents make  their  advances  in  knowledge  by  short  flights,  between 
each  of  which  the  mind  may  lie  at  rest.  For  every  single  act  of  pro- 
gression a  short  time  is  sufficient,  and  it  is  only  necessary,  that,  when- 
ever that  time  is  afforded,  it  be  well  employed. 

Few  minds  will  be  long  confined  to  severe  and  laborious  medita- 
tion; and  when  a  successful  attack  on  knowledge  has  been  made,  the 
student  recreates  himself  with  the  contemplation  of  his  conquest,  and 
forbears  another  incursion  till  the  new-acquired  truth  has  become 
familiar,  and  his  curiosity  calls  upon  him  for  fresh  gratifications. 
Whether  the  time  of  intermission  is  spent  in  company  or  in  solitude, 
in  necessarj'-  business  or  in  voluntary  levities,  the  understanding  is 
equally  abstracted  from  the  object  of  inquiry;  but,  perhaps,  if  it  be 
detained  by  occupations  less  pleasing,  it  returns  again  to  study  with 
greater  alacrity  than  when  it  is  glutted  with  ideal  pleasures,  and  sur- 
feited with  intemperance  of  application.  He  that  will  not  suffer  him- 
self to  be  discouraged  by  fancied  impossibilities,  may  sometimes  find 
his  abilities  invigorated  by  the  necessity  of  exerting  them  in  short 
intervals,  as  the  force  of  a  current  is  increased  by  the  contraction  of 
its  channel. 

From  some  cause  like  this  it  has  probably  proceeded,  that,  among 
those  who  have  contributed  to  the  advancement  of  learning,  many 
have  risen  to  eminence  in  opposition  to  all  the  obstacles  which  exter- 
nal circumstances  could  place  in  their  way,  amidst  the  tumult  of 
business,  the  distresses  of  poverty,  or  the  dissipations  of  a  wandering 
and  unsettled  state.  A  great  part  of  the  life  of  Erasmus  was  one  con- 
tinual peregrination ;  ill  supplied  with  the  gifts  of  fortune,  and  led 
from  city  to  city,  and  from  kingdom  to  kingdom,  by  the  hopes  of 
patrons  and  preferment,  hopes  which  always  flattered  and  always  de- 
ceived him,  he  yet  found  means,  by  unshaken  constancy,  and  a  vigi- 
lant improvement  of  those  hours,  which,  in  the  midst  of  the  most 
restless  activity,  will  remain  unengaged,  to  write  more  than  another 
in  the  same  condition  would  have  hoped  to  read.    Compelled  by  want 


A.  1).  1709-1784.  SAMUEL   JOHNSON.  2G7 

to  attendance  and  solicitation,  and  so  much  versed  in  common  life, 
that  he  has  transmitted  to  us  the  most  perfect  delineation  of  the  man- 
ners of  his  age,  he  joined  to  his  knowledge  of  the  world  such  appli- 
cation to  books,  that  he  will  stand  forever  in  the  first  rank  of  iirerar_y 
heroes.  How  this  proficiency  was  obtained  he  sufficiently  discovers, 
by  informing  us,  that  the  "  Praise  of  Folly,"  one  of  his  most  cel- 
ebrated performances,  was  composed  by  him  on  the  road  to  liaiy,  lest 
the  hours  which  he  was  obliged  to  spend  on  horseback  shouiu  be  tat- 
tled away  without  regard  to  literature. 

An  Italian  philosopher  expressed  in  his  motto,  that  time  was  his 
estate;  an  estate,  indeed,  which  will  produce  nothing  without  cul- 
tivation, but  will  always  abundantly  repay  the  labors  o\  industry, 
and  satisfy  the  most  extensive  desires,  if  no  part  of  it  be  suffered  to 
lie  waste  by  negligence,  to  be  overrun  with  noxious  plants,  or  laid  out 
for  show  rather  than  for  use. 


From  the  "  Lives  of  the  Poets." 

213*    Dryden  and  Pope. 

Integrity  of  understanding  and  nicety  of  discernment  were  not  allot- 
ted in  a  less  proportion  to  Dryden  than  to  Pope.  The  rectitude  of 
Dryden's  mind  was  sufficiently  shown  by  the  dismission  of  his  poetical 
prejudices,  and  the  rejection  of  unnatural  thoughts  and  rugged  num- 
bers. But  Dryden  never  desired  to  apply  all  the  judgment  that  he; 
had.  He  wrote,  and  professed  to  write,  merely  for  the  people ;  and 
when  he  pleased  others  he  contented  himself.  He  spent  no  time  in 
struggles  to  rouse  latent  powers;  he  never  attempted  to  make  thai 
better  which  was  already  good,  nor  often  to  mend  what  he  must  have 
known  to  be  faulty.  He  wrote,  as  he  tells  us,  with  very  little  consid- 
eration; when  occasion  or  necessity  called  upon  him,  he  poured  out 
what  the  present  moment  happened  to  supply,  and,  when  once  it  ha/' 
passed  the  press,  ejected  it  from  his  mind ;  for  when  he  had  no  pecu 
niary  interest  he  had  no  further  solicitude. 

Pope  was  not  content  to  satisfy;  he  desired  to  excel,  and  therefore 
always  endeavored  to  do  his  best:  he  did  not  court  the  candor,  but 
dared  the  judgment  of  his  reader,  and,  expecting  no  indulgence  from 
others,  he  showed  none  to  himself.  He  examined  lines  and  words 
with  minute  and  punctilious  observation,  and  retouched  every  part 
with  indefatigable  diligence  till  he  had  left  nothing  to  be  forgiven. 

For  this  reason  he  kept  his  pieces  very  long  in  his  hands,  while  he 
considered  and  reconsidered  them.  The  only  poems  which  can  be 
supposed  to  have  been  written  with  such  regard  to  the  times  as  might 
hasten  their  publication,  were  the  two  satires  of  "  Thirty-eight;  "  of 
which  Dodsley  told  me,  that  they  were  brought  to  him  by  the  author, 
that  they  might  be  fairly  copied.    "Almost  every  line,"  he  said,  "  wai 


268     .  *  SAMUEL  JOHNSON.  Chap.  XVII. 

then  written  twice  over.  I  gave  him  a  clean  transcript,  which  he  sent 
some  time  afterwards  to  me  for  the  press,  with  almost  every  line 
written  twice  over  a  second  time." 

His  declaration,  that  his  care  for  his  works  ceased  at  their  publica- 
tion, was  not  strictly  true.  His  parental  attention  never  abandoned 
them;  what  he  found  amiss  in  the  first  edition,  he  silently  corrected 
in  those  that  followed.  He  appears  to  have  revised  the  "  Iliad,"  and 
freed  it  from  some  of  its  imperfections;  and  the  "Essay  on  Oiti- 
cism  "  received  many  improvements  after  its  first  appearance.  It  will 
seldom  be  found  that  he  altered  without  adding  clearness,  elegance, 
or  vigor.  Pope  had  perhaps  the  judgment  of  Dryden ;  but  Dryden 
certainly  wanted  the  diligence  of  Pope. 

In  acquired  knowledge,  the  superiority  must  be  allowed  to  Dryden, 
whose  education  was  more  scholastic,  and  who,  before  he  became  an 
author,  had  been  allowed  more  time  for  study,  with  better  means  of 
information.  His  mind  has  a  larger  range,  and  he  collects  his  images 
and  illustrations  from  a  more  extensive  circumference  of  science. 
Dryden  knew  more  of  man  in  his  general  nature,  and  Pope  in  his 
local  manners.  The  notions  of  Dryden  were  formed  by  comprehen- 
sive speculation ;  and  those  of  Pope  by  minute  attention.  There  is 
more  dignity  in  the  knowledge  of  Dryden,  and  more  certainty  in  that 
of  Pope. 

Poetry  was  not  the  sole  praise  of  either,  for  both  excelled  likewise 
in  ^rose;  but  Pope  did  not  borrow  his  prose  from  his  predecessor. 
The  style  of  Dryden  is  capricious  and  varied;  that  of  Pope  is  cautious 
and  uniform.  Dryden  observes  the  motions  of  his  own  mind;  Pope 
constrains  his  mind  to  his  own  rules  of  composition.  Dryden  is 
sometimes  vehement  and  rapid;  Pope  is  always  smooth,  uniform, 
and  gentle.  Dryden's  page  is  a  natural  field  rising  into  inequalities, 
and  diversified  by  the  varied  exuberance  of  abundant  vegetation ; 
Pope's  is  a  velvet  lawn,  shaven  by  the  scythe  and  levelled  by  the 
roller. 

Of  genius,  that  power  which  constitutes  a  poet;  that  quality,  with- 
out which  judgment  is  cold,  and  knowledge  is  inert;  that  energy 
which  collects,  combines,  amplifies,  and  animates;  the  superiority 
must,  with  some  hesitation,  be  allowed  to  Dz'yden.  It  is  not  to  be 
inferred  that  of  this  poetical  vigor  Pope  had  only  a  little,  because 
Dryden  had  more ;  for  every  other  writer  since  Milton  must  give  place 
to  Pope;  and  even  of  Dryden  it  must  be  said,  that,  if  he  has  brighter 
paragraphs,  he  has  not  better  poems.  Dryden's  performances  were 
always  hasty,  either  excited  by  some  external  occasion,  or  extorted 
by  domestic  necessity;  he  composed  without  consideration,  and  pub- 
lished without  correction.  What  his  mind  could  supply  at  call,  or 
gather  in  one  excursion,  was  all  that  he  sought,  and  all  that  he  gave. 
The  dilatory  caution  of  Pope  enabled  him  to  condense  his  senti- 
ments, to  multiply  his  images,  and  to  accumulate  all  that  study 
might  produce,  or  chance  might  supply.  If  the  flights  of  Dryden, 
therefore,  are  higher,  Pope  continues  longer  on  the  wing.     If  of  Dry 


A.  D.  1709-1784.  SAMUEL   JOHNSON.  269 

den's  fire  the  blaze  is  brighter,  of  Pope's  the  heat  is  more  regular 
and  constant.  Drjden  often  surpasses  expectation,  and  Pope  never 
falls  below  it.  Drjden  is  read  with  frequent  astonishment,  and  Pop=2 
with  perpetual  delight. 


From  the  "Journey  to  the  Hebrides." 

214:»    Reflections  on  Landing  at  Iona. 

We  were  now  treading  that  illustrious  island  which  was  once  the 
luminary  of  the  Caledonian  regions,  whence  savage  clans  and  roving 
barbarians  derived  the  benefits  of  knowledge  and  the  blessings  of 
religion.  To  abstract  the  mind  from  all  local  emotion  would  be  im- 
possible if  it  were  endeavored,  and  would  be  foolish  if  it  were  pos- 
sible. Whatever  withdraws  us  from  the  power  of  our  senses,  what- 
ever makes  the  past,  the  distant,  or  the  future  predominate  over  the 
present,  advances  us  in  the  dignity  of  thinking  beings.  Far  from  me 
and  my  friends  be  such  frigid  philosophy  as  may  conduct  us  indiffer- 
ent and  unmoved  over  any  ground  which  has  been  dignified  by  wis- 
dom, bravery,  or  virtue.  That  man  is  little  to  be  envied  whose  patri- 
otism would  not  gain  force  on  the  plains  of  Marathon,  or  whose  pietj 
would  not  grow  warmer  among  the  ruins  of  Iona. 


From  "  London." 

213,    The  Fate  of  Poverty. 

By  numbers  here  from  shame  or  censure  free, 
All  crimes  are  safe  but  hated  povei'ty. 
This,  only  this,  the  rigid  law  pursues. 
This,  only  this,  provokes  the  snarling  muse. 
The  sober  trader  at  a  tattered  cloak 
Wakes  from  his  dream,  and  labors  for  a  joke. 
With  brisker  air  the  silken  courtiers  gaze, 
And  turn  the  varied  taunt  a  thousand  ways. 

Of  all  the  griefs  that  harass  the  distressed. 
Sure  the  most  bitter  is  a  scornful  jest; 
Fate  never  wounds  more  deep  the  generous  heart. 
Than  when  a  blockhead's  insult  points  the  dart. 

Has  Heaven  reserved,  in  pity  to  the  poor, 
No  pathless  waste,  or  undiscovered  shore? 
No  secret  island  in  the  boundless  main? 
No  peaceful  desert  yet  unclaimed  by  Spain? 
Qj^iick  let  us  rise,  the  happy  seats  explore. 
And  bear  oppression's  insolence  no  more. 
This  mournful  truth  is  everywhere  confessed, 
Slow  rises  worth,  by  poverty  depressed. 


270  WILLIAM  PITT.  Chap.  XVH 

From  the  "Vanity  of  Human  Wishes." 

216.    Charles  XII. 

On  what  foundation  stands  the  warrior's  pride. 

How  just  his  hopes,  let  Swedish  Charles  decide. 

A  frame  of  adamant,  a  soul  of  fire. 

No  dangers  fright  him,  and  no  labors  tire ; 

O'er  love,  o'er  fear,  extends  his  wide  domain, 

Unconquered  lord  of  pleasure  and  of  pain; 

No  joys  to  him  pacific  sceptres  yield, 

War  sounds  the  trump,  he  rushes  to  the  field  : 

Behold  surrounding  kings  their  powers  combine, 

And  one  capitulate,  and  one  resign  ; 

Peace  courts  his  hand,  but  spreads  her  charms  in  vain; 

"Think  nothing  gained,  "he  cries,  "till  nought  remain, 

On  Moscow's  walls  till  Gothic  standards  fly. 

And  all  be  mine  beneath  the  polar  sky." 

The  march  begins  in  military  state, 

And  nations  on  his  eye  suspended  wait; 

Stern  Famine  guards  the  solitary  coast. 

And  Winter  barricades  the  realms  of  Frost; 

He  comes,  nor  want  nor  cold  his  course  delay;  — 

Hide,  blushing  Glory,  hide  Pultowa's  day! 

The  vanquished  hero  leaves  his  broken  bands, 

And  shows  his  miseries  in  distant  lands; 

Condemned,  a  needy  suppliant,  to  wait, 

While  ladies  interpose,  and  slaves  debate. 

But  did  not  Chance  at  length  her  error  mend? 

Did  no  subverted  empire  mark  his  end,-* 

Did  rival  monarch  give  the  fatal  wound  ? 

Or  hostile  millions  press  him  to  the  ground? 

His  fall  was  destined  to  a  barren  strand, 

A  petty  fortress,  and  a  dubious  hand ; 

He  left  a  name,  at  which  the  world  grew  pale, 

To  point  a  moral,  or  adorn  a  tale. 


William  Pitt,  Earl  of  Chatham,     i  708-1 77S. 

From  his  Speeches. 

21  7,    Speech  on  American  Affairs. 

I  cannot,  my  lords,  I  will  not,  join  in  congratulatijn  on  misfortune 
and  disgrace.  This,  my  lords,  is  a  perilous  and  tremendous  moment; 
it  is  not  a  time  for  adulation ;  the  smoothness  of  flattery  cannot  save 
us  in  this  rugged  and  awful  crisis.     It  is  now  necessary  to  instruct  the 


A.  D.  1708-1778.  WILLIAM  PITT.  271 

throne  in  the  language  of  truth.  We  must,  if  possible,  dispel  the  de- 
lusion and  darkness  which  envelop  it:  and  display,  in  its  full  danger 
and  genuine  colors,  the  ruin  which  is  brought  to  our  doors.  Can 
ministers  still  presume  to  expect  support  in  their  infatuation.?  Can 
Parliament  be  so  dead  to  its  dignity  and  duty,  as  to  give  their  support 
to  measures  thus  obtruded  and  forced  upon  them.?  measures,  mv 
lords,  which  have  reduced  this  late  flourishing  empire  to  scorn  and 
contempt.?  But  yesterday,  and  England  might  have  stood  against  the 
world ;  now,  none  so  poor  as  to  do  her  reverence  !  The  people,  whom 
we  at  first  despised  as  rebels,  but  whom  we  now  acknowledge  as  ene- 
mies, are  abetted  against  us,  supplied  with  every  military  store,  their 
interest  consulted,  and  their  ambassadors  entertained  by  our  inveterate 
enemy;  —  and  ministers  do  not,  and  dare  not,  interpose  with  dignity 
or  effect.  The  desperate  state  of  our  army  abroad  is  in  part  known. 
No  man  more  highly  esteems  and  honors  the  English  troops  than  I 
do  :  I  know  their  virtues  and  their  valor :  I  know  they  can  achieve 
anything  but  impossibilities;  and  I  know  that  the  conquest  of  Eng- 
lish America  is  an  impossibility.  You  cannot,  my  lords,  you  cannot 
conquer  America.  What  is  your  present  situation  there.?  We  do  not 
know  the  worst:  but  we  know  that  in  three  campaigns  we  have  done 
nothing,  and  suffered  much.  You  may  swell  every  expense,  accumu- 
late every  assistance,  and  extend  your  traffic  to  the  shambles  of  every 
German  despot;  your  attempts  will  be  forever  vain  and  impotent;  — 
doubly  so,  indeed,  from  this  mercenary  aid  on  which  you  rely ;  for  it 
irritates,  to  an  incurable  resentment,  the  minds  of  your  adversaries, 
to  overrun  them  with  the  mercenary  sons  of  rapine  and  plunder,  devot- 
ing them  and  their  possessions  to  the  rapacity  of  hireling  cruelty.  *  * 
But,  my  loi^ds,  who  is  the  man,  that,  in  addition  to  the  disgraces 
and  mischiefs  of  the  war,  has  dared  to  authorize  and  associate  to  our 
arms,  the  tomahawk  and  scalping-knife  of  the  savage.? — to  call  into 
civilized  alliance,  the  wild  and  inhuman  inhabitants  of  the  woods.?  — 
to  delegate  to  the  merciless  Indian  the  defence  of  disputed  rights,  and 
to  wage  the  horrors  of  his  barbarous  war  against  our  brethren.?  My 
lords,  these  enormities  cry  aloud  for  redress  and  punishment.  But, 
my  lords,  this  barbarous  measure  has  been  defended,  not  only  on  the 
principles  of  policy  and  necessity,  but  also  on  those  of  morality;  "  for 
it  is  perfectly  allowable,"  says  Lord  Suffolk,  "to  use  all  the  means 
which  God  and  nature  have  put  into  our  hands."  I  am  astonished,  I 
am  shocked,  to  hear  such  principles  confessed ;  to  hear  them  avowed 
in  this  house,  or  in  this  country.  ISIj-  lords,  I  did  not  intend  to  encroach 
so  much  on  your  attention  ;  but  I  cannot  repress  my  indignation  —  I 
feel  myself  impelled  to  speak.  My  lords,  we  are  called  upon  as  mem- 
bers of  this  house,  as  men,  as  Christians,  to  protest  against  such  hor- 
rible barbarity!  —  "That  God  and  nature  have  put  into  our  hands!" 
What  ideas  of  God  and  nature  that  noble  lord  may  entertain,  I  know 
not;  but  I  know,  that  such  detestable  principles  are  equally  abhorrent 
lo  religion  and  hvmianity.  What!  to  attribute  the  sacred  sanction  of 
Gc  a  and   nature  to  the  massacres  of  the  Indian  scalping-knife  I  to  the 


272  EDMUND  BURKE,  Chap.  XVII. 

savage,  torturing  and  murdering  his  unhappy  victims  !  Such  notions 
shock  every  precept  of  morality,  every  feeling  of  humanity,  every 
sentiment  of  honor.  These  abominable  principles,  and  this  more 
abominable  avowal  of  them,  demand  the  most  decisive  indignation. 
I  call  upon  that  right  reverend,  and  this  most  learned  bench,  to  vindi- 
cate the  religion  of  their  God,  to  support  the  justice  of  their  country. 
I  call  upon  the  bishops  to  interpose  the  unsullied  sanctity  of  their 
lawn;  upon  the  judges  to  interpose  the  purity  of  their  ermine,  to 
save  us  from  this  pollution.  I  call  upon  the  honor  of  your  lordships, 
to  reverence  the  dignity  of  your  ancestors,  and  to  maintain  your  own. 
I  call  upon  the  spirit  and  humanity  of  my  country,  to  vindicate  the 
national  character.  I  invoke  the  genius  of  the  Constitution.  From 
the  tapestry  that  adorns  these  walls,  the  immortal  ancestor  of  this 
noble  lord  frowns  with  indignation  at  the  disgrace  of  his  country.  In 
vain  did  he  defend  the  liberty,  and  establish  the  religion  of  Britain, 
against  the  tyranny  of  Rome,  if  these  worse  than  Popish  cruelties  and 
inquisitorial  practices  are  endured  among  us.  To  send  forth  the  mer- 
ciless Indian,  thirsting  for  blood!  against  whom.'*  —  your  Protestant 
brethren!  —  to  lay  waste  their  country,  to  desolate  their  dwellings, 
and  extirpate  their  race  and  name,  by  the  aid  and  instrumentality  of 
these  horrible  hellhounds  of  war!  —  Spain  can  no  longer  boast  pre- 
eminence in  barbarity.  She  armed  herself  with  bloodhounds  to  extir- 
pate the  wretched  natives  of  Mexico ;  we,  more  ruthless,  loose  those 
brutal  warriors  against  our  countrymen  in  America,  endeared  to  us  by 
every  tie  that  can  sanctify  humanity.  I  solemnly  call  upon  your  lord- 
ships, and  upon  every  order  of  men  in  the  state,  to  stamp  upon  this 
infamous  procedure  the  indelible  stigma  of  the  public  abhorrence. 
More  particularly,  I  call  upon  the  venerable  prelates  of  our  religion, 
to  do  away  this  iniquity;  let  them  perform  a  lustration  to  purify  the 
country  from  this  deep  and  deadly  sin. 

My  lords,  I  am  old  and  weak,  and  at  present  unable  to  say  more; 
but  my  feelings  and  indignation  were  too  strong  to  have  allowed  me 
to  say  less.  I  could  not  have  slept  this  night  in  my  bed,  nor  even 
reposed  my  head  upon  my  pillow,  without  giving  vent  to  my  steadfast 
abhorrence  of  such  enormous  and  preposterous  principles. 


Edmund  Burke,     i  731-1797.     (Manual,  p.  339.) 

From  the  "Essay  on  the  Sublime  and  Beautiful." 
2 IS,    Sympathy  a  Source  of  the  Sublime. 

It  is  by  the  passion  of  sympathy  that  we  enter  into  the  concerns  of 
others ;  that  we  are  moved  as  they  are  moved,  and  are  never  suffered 
to  be  indifferent  spectators  of  almost  anything  which  men  can  do  or 
suffer.  For  sympathy  must  be  considered  as  a  sort  of  substitution,  by 
which  we  are  put  into  the  place  of  another  man,  and  affected  in  a  good 
measure  as  he  is  affected ;  so  that  this  passion  may  either  partake  of 


A.  D.  1731-1797.  EDMUND  BURKE.  273 

the  nature  of  those  which  regard  self-preservation,  and  turning  upon 
pain  may  be  a  source  of  the  sublime;  or  it  may  turn  upon  ideas  of 
pleasure,  and  then,  whatever  has  been  said  of  the  social  affections, 
whether  they  regard  society  in  general,  or  only  some  particular  modes 
of  it,  may  be  applicable  here. 

It  is  by  this  principle  chiefly  that  poetry,  painting,  and  other  affect- 
ing arts,  transfuse  their  passions  from  one  breast  to  another,  and  are 
often  capable  of  grafting  a  delight  on  wretchedness,  misery,  and  death 
itself.  It  is  a  common  observation,  that  objects,  which  in  the  reality 
would  shock,  are,  in  tragical  and  such  like  representations,  the  source 
of  a  very  high  species  of  pleasure.  This,  taken  as  a  fact,  has  been 
the  cause  of  much  reasoning.  This  satisfaction  has  been  commonly 
attributed,  first,  to  the  comfort  we  receive  in  considering  that  so  mel- 
ancholy a  story  is  no  more  than  a  fiction ;  and  next,  to  the  contempla- 
tion of  our  own  freedom  from  the  evils  we  see  represented.  I  am 
afraid  it  is  a  practice  much  too  common,  in  inquiries  of  this  nature,  to 
attribute  the  cause  of  feelings  which  merely  arise  from  the  mechanical 
structure  of  our  bodies,  or  from  the  natural  frame  and  constitution  of 
our  minds,  to  certain  conclusions  of  the  reasoning  faculty  on  the  ob- 
jects presented  to  us;  for  I  have  some  reason  to  apprehend,  that  the 
influence  of  reason  in  producing  our  passions  is  nothing  near  so  exten- 
sive as  is  commonly  believed. 


210*   Close  of  his  Speech  to  the  Electors  of  Bristol. 

Gentlemen,  I  have  had  my  day.  I  can  never  sufficiently  express 
my  gratitude  to  you  for  having  set  me  in  a  place  wherein  I  could  lend 
the  slightest  help  to  great  and  laudable  designs.  If  I  have  had  my 
share  in  any  measure  giving  quiet  to  private  property  and  private  con- 
science; if  by  my  vote  I  have  aided  in  securing  to  families  the  best 
possession,  peace ;  if  I  have  joined  in  reconciling  kings  to  their  sub- 
jects, and  subjects  to  their  prince;  if  I  have  assisted  to  loosen  the 
foreign  holdings  of  the  citizen,  and  taught  him  to  look  for  his  protec- 
tion to  the  laws  of  his  country,  and  for  his  comfort  to  the  good-will 
of  his  countrymen  ;  —  if  I  have  thus  taken  my  part  with  the  best  of 
men  in  the  best  of  their  actions,  I  can  shut  the  book;  —  I  might  wish 
to  read  a  page  or  two  more  —  but  this  is  enough  for  my  measure.  — I 
have  not  lived  in  vain. 

And  now,  gentlemen,  on  this  serious  day,  when  I  come,  as  it  were, 
{  )  make  up  my  account  with  you,  let  me  take  to  myself  some  degree 
cf  honest  pride  on  the  nature  of  the  charges  that  are  against  me.  I 
do  not  here  stand  before  you  accused  of  venality  or  of  neglect  of  duty. 
It  is  not  said,  that,  in  the  long  period  of  my  service,  I  have,  in  a  single 
instance,  sacrificed  the  slightest  of  your  interests  to  my  ambition  or 
to  my  fortune.  It  is  not  alleged,  that,  to  gratify  any  anger,  or  revenge 
of  my  own,  or  of  my  party,  I  have  had  a   share   in  wronging  or  op- 

'   18 


274  EDMUND   BURKE.  Chap.  XVH, 

pressing  any  description  of  men,  or  any  one  man  in  zwy  description. 
No !  the  charges  against  me  are  all  of  one  kind,  that  I  have  pushed 
tlje  principles  of  general  justice  and  benevolence  too  far;  farther  than 
a  cautious  policy  would  warrant;  and  farther  than  the  opinions  of 
many  would  go  along  with  me.  In  every  accident  which  may  happen 
through  life  —  in  pain,  in  sorrow,  in  depression,  and  distress  —  I  will 
call  to  mind  this  accusation,  and  be  comforted. 


From  the  "Reflections  on  the  French  Revolution." 

220*   Marie  Antoinette,  Queen  of  France. 

It  is  now  sixteen  or  seventeen  years  since  I  saw  the  Qiieen  of  France, 
then  the  Dauphiness,  at  Versailles;  and  surely  never  lighted  on  this 
orb,  which  she  hardly  seemed  to  touch,  a  more  delightful  vision.  I 
saw  her  just  above  the  horizon,  decorating  and  cheering  the  elevated 
sphere  she  just  began  to  move  in  —  glittering  like  the  morning  star, 
full  of  life,  and  splendor,  and  joy.  O,  what  a  revolution  !  and  what 
a  heart  must  I  have  to  contemplate  without  emotion  that  elevation 
and  that  fall!  Little  did  I  dream,  when  she  added  titles  of  veneration 
to  that  enthusiastic,  distant,  respectful  love,  that  she  should  ever  be 
obliged  to  carry  the  sharp  antidote  against  disgrace  concealed  in  that 
bosom;  little  did  I  dream  that  I  should  have  lived  to  see  such  disas- 
ters fallen  upon  her  in  a  nation  of  gallant  men,  in  a  nation  of  men  of 
honor  and  of  cavaliers.  I  thought  ten  thousand  swords  must  have 
leaped  from  their  scabbards  to  avenge  even  a  look  that  threatened  her 
with  insult.  But  the  age  of  chivalry  is  gone.  That  of  sophisters, 
economists,  and  calculators  has  succeeded;  and  the  glory  of  Europe 
is  extinguished  forever.  Never,  never  more  shall  we  behold  that  gen- 
erous loyalty  to  rank  and  sex,  that  proud  submission,  that  dignified 
obedience,  that  subordination  of  the  heart,  which  kept  alive,  even  in 
servitude  itself,  the  spirit  of  an  exalted  freedom.  The  unbought  grace 
of  life,  the  cheap  defence  of  nations,  the  nurse  of  manly  sentiment  and 
heroic  enterprise  is  gone!  It  is  gone,  that  sensibility  of  principle, 
that  chastity  of  honor,  which  felt  a  stain  like  a  wound,  which  inspired 
courage  whilst  it  mitigated  ferocity,  which  ennobled  whatever  it 
touched,  and  under  which  vice  itself  lost  half  its  evil  by  losing  all  its 
grossness. 


221*    From  the  "Impeachment  of  Warren  Hastings." 

My  lords,  you  have  now  heard  the  principles  on  which  Mr.  Hastings 
governs  the  part  of  Asia  subjected  to  the  British  empire.  You  have 
heard  his  opinion  of  the  mean  and  depraved  state  of  those  who  are 
subject  to  it.  You  have  heard  his  lecture  upon  arbitrary  power,  which 
he  states  to  be  the  constitution  of  Asia.  You  hear  the  application  he 
makes  of  it;  and  you  hear  the  practices  which   he  employs  tojubtily 


A.  D.  1731-1797.  EDMUND   BURKE.  27.^ 

it,  and  who  the  persons  were  on  whose  authority  he  relies,  and  whose 
example  he  professes  to  follow.  In  the  first  place,  your  lordships  will 
be  astonished  at  the  audacity  with  which  he  speaks  of  his  own  admin- 
istration, as  if  he  was  reading  a  speculative  lecture  on  the  evils  attend- 
ant upon  some  vicious  system  of  foreign  government,  in  which  he  had 
no  sort  of  concern  whatsoever.  And  then,  when  in  this  speculative 
way  he  has  established,  or  thinks  he  has,  the  vices  of  the  government, 
he  conceives  he  has  found  a  sufiicient  apology  for  his  own  crimes. 
And  if  he  violates  the  most  solemn  engagements,  if  he  oppresses,  ex- 
torts, and  robs,  if  he  imprisons,  confiscates,  banishes,  at  his  sole  will 
and  pleasure,  when  we  accuse  him  for  his  ill  treatment  of  the  people 
committed  to  him  as  a  sacred  trust,  his  defence  is,  —  "To  be  robbed, 
violated,  oppressed,  is  their  privilege  —  let  the  constitution  of  their 
country  answer  for  it.  I  did  not  make  it  for  them.  Slaves  I  found 
them,  and  as  slaves  I  have  treated  them.  I  was  a  despotic  prince, 
despotic  governments  are  jealous,  and  the  subjects  prone  to  rebellion. 
This  very  proneness  o{  the  subject  to  shake  off  his  allegiance  exposes 
him  to  continual  danger  from  his  sovereign's  jealousy,  and  this  is 
consequent  on  the  political  state  of  Mindostanic  governments."  He 
lays  it  down  as  a  rule,  that  despotism  is  the  genuine  constitution  of 
India;  that  a  disposition  to  rebellion  in  the  subject,  or  dependent 
prince,  is  the  necessary  effect  of  this  despotism,  and  that  jealousy  and 
its  consequences  naturally  arise  on  the  part  of  the  sovereign  ;  that  the 
government  is  everything,  and  the  subject  nothing;  that  the  great 
landed  men  are  in  a  mean  and  depraved  state,  and  subject  to  many 
evils. 

But  nothing  is  more  false  than  that  despotism  is  the  constitution  of 
any  country  in  Asia,  that  we  are  acquainted  with.  It  is  certainly  not 
true  of  any  Mahomedan  constitution.  But  if  it  were,  do  your  lord- 
ships really  think  that  the  nation  would  bear,  that  any  human  crea- 
ture would  bear,  to  hear  an  English  governor  defend  himself  on  such 
principles.?  or,  if.he  can  defend  himself  on  such  principles,  is  it  possi- 
ble to  deny  the  conclusion,  that  no  man  in  India  has  a  security  for 
anything  but  by  being  totally  independent  of  the  British  government.'' 
Here  he  has  declared  his  opinion,  that  he  is  a  despotic  prince,  that  he 
is  to  use  arbitrary  power,  and  of  course  all  his  acts  are  covered  with 
that  shield.  ^'•J  know,^'  says  he,  ^^  the  cotistiiuti'on  of  Asia  orily  from 
its  practice."  Will  yowr  lordships  submit  to  hear  the  corrupt  prac- 
tices of  mankind  made  the  principles  of  government.?  No;  it  will  be 
your  pride  and  glory  to  teach  men  intrusted  with  power,  that,  in  their 
use  of  it,  they  are  to  conform  to  principles,  and  not  to  draw  their  prin- 
ciples from  the  corrupt  practice  of  any  man  whatever.  Was  there 
ever  heard,  or  could  it  be  conceived,  that  a  governor  would  dare  to 
heap  up  all  the  evil  practices,  all  the  cruelties,  oppressions,  extortions, 
corruptions,  briberies  of  all  the  ferocious  usurpers,  desperate  robbers, 
thieves,  cheats,  and  jugglers,  that  ever  had  office  from  one  end  of 
Asia  to  another,  and  consolidating  all  this  mass  of  the  crimes  and 
absurdities  of  bai])arous  domination  into  one  code,  establish  it  as  the 


276  EDMUND  BURKE.  Chap.  XVLL 

"whole  duty"  of  an  English  governor  ?     I  believe  that  till  this  time 
so  audacious  a  thing  was  never  attempted  by  man. 

He  have  arbitrary  power!  My  lords,  the  East  Indian  Company 
have  not  arbitrary  power  to  give  him;  the  king  has  no  arbitrary 
power  to  give  him;  your  lordships  have  not;  nor  the  Commons; 
nor  the  whole  legislature.  We  have  no  arbitrary  power  to  give ; 
because  arbitrary  power  is  a  thing  which  neither  any  man  can  hold 
nor  any  man  can  give.  No  man  can  lawfully  govern  himself  accord- 
ing to  his  own  will,  much  less  can  one  person  be  governed  by  the 
will  of  another.  We  are  all  born  in  subjection,  all  born  equally,  high 
and  low,  governors  and  governed,  in  subjection  to  one  great,  immu- 
table, pre-existent  law,  prior  to  all  our  devices,  and  prior  to  all  our 
contrivances,  paramount  to  all  our  ideas  and  all  our  sensations,  ante- 
cedent to  our  very  existence,  by  which  we  are  knit  and  connected  in 
the  eternal  frame  of  the  universe,  out  of  which  we  cannot  stir. 


222 1    From  "A  Letter  to  a  Noble  Lord"  (Duke  of  Bedford). 

Had  it  pleased  God  to  continue  to  me  the  hopes  of  succession,  I 
should  have  been,  according  to  my  mediocrity,  and  the  mediocrity  of 
the  age  I  live  in,  a  sort  of  founder  of  a  family;  I  should  have  left  a 
son,  who,  in  all  the  points  in  which  personal  merit  can  be  viewed,  in 
science,  in  erudition,  in  genius,  in  taste,  in  honor,  in  generosity,  in 
humanity,  in  every  liberal  sentiment,  and  every  liberal  accomplish- 
ment, would  not  have  shown  himself  inferior  to  the  Duke  of  Bedford, 
or  to  any  of  those  to  whom  he  traces  in  his  line.  His  grace  very  soon 
would  have  wanted  all  plausibility  in  his  attack  upon  that  provision 
which  belonged  more  to  mine  than  to  me.  He  would  soon  have  sup- 
plied every  deficiency,  and  symmetrized  every  disproportion.  It 
would  not  have  been  for  that  successor  to  resort_  to  any  stagnant 
wasting  reservoir  of  merit  in  me,  or  in  any  ancestry.  He  had  in 
himself  a  salient,  living  spring,  of  generous  and  manly  action.  Every 
day  he  lived  he  would  have  repurchased  the  bounty  of  the  crown,  and 
ten  times  more,  if  ten  times  more  he  had  received.  He  was  made  a 
public  creature;  and  had  no  enjoyment  whatever  but  in  the  perform- 
ance of  some  duty.  At  this  exigent  moment,  the  loss  of  a  finished 
man  is  not  easily  supplied. 

But  a  Disposer  whose  power  we  are  little  able  to  resist,  and  whose 
wisdom  it  behooves  us  not  at  all  to  dispute,  has  ordained  it  in  another 
manner,  and  (whatever  my  querulous  weakness  might  suggest)  a  far 
better.  The  storm  has  gone  over  me,  and  I  lie  like  one  of  those  old 
oaks  which  the  late  hurricane  hath  scattered  about  me.  I  am  stripped 
of  all  my  honors  :  I  am  torn  up  by  the  roots,  and  lie  prostrate  on  the 
earth !  There,  and  prostrate  there,  I  most  unfeignedly  recognize  the 
divine  justice,  and  in  some  degree  submit  to  it.  But  whilst  I  humble 
myself  before  God,  I  do  not  know  that  it   is  forbidden  to  repel  the 


A.  D,.  1769-1772.  THE  LETTERS    OF  JUNIUS.  277 

attacks  of  unjust  and  inconsiderate  men.  The  patience  of  Job  is  pro- 
verbial. After  some  of  the  convulsive  struggles  of  our  irritable  na- 
ture, he  submitted  himself,  and  repented  in  dust  and  ashes.  But  even 
so,  I  do  not  find  him  blamed  for  reprehending,  and  with  a  considerable 
degree  o{  verbal  asperity,  those  ill-natured  neighbors  of  his,  who  vis- 
ited his  dunghill  to  read  moral,  political,  and  economical  lectures  on 
his  misery.  I  am  alone.  I  have  none  to  meet  my  enemies  in  the 
gate.  Indeed,  my  lord,  I  greatly  deceive  myself,  if,  in  this  hard  sea- 
son, I  would  give  a  peck  of  refuse  wheat  for  all  that  is  called  fame  and 
honor  in  the  world.  This  is  the  appetite  but  of  a  few.  It  is  a  luxury ; 
it  is  a  privilege;  it  is  an  indulgence  for  those  who  are  at  their  ease. 
But  we  are  all  of  us  made  to  shun  disgrace,  as  we  are  made  to  shrink 
from  pain,  and  poverty,  and  disease.  It  is  an  instinct;  and,  under 
the  direction  of  reason,  instinct  is  always  in  the  right.  I  live  in  an 
inverted  order.  They  who  ought  to  have  succeeded  me  are  gone 
before  me.  They  who  should  have  been  to  me  as  posterity  are  in  the 
place  of  ancestors.  I  owe  to  the  dearest  relation  (which  ever  must 
subsist  in  memory)  that  act  of  piety,  which  he  would  have  performed 
to  me;  I  owe  it  to  him  to  show  that  he  was  not  descended,  as  the 
Duke  of  Bedford  would  have  it,  from  an  unworthy  parent. 


The  Letters  of  Junius.     1769-1772.     (Manual,  p.  341.) 

223,   To  His  Grace  the  Duke  of  Bedford. 

My  Lord,  —  You  are  so  little  accustomed  to  receive  any  marks  of 
respect  or  esteem  from  the  public,  that  if,  in  the  following  lines,  a 
compliment  or  expression  of  applause  should  escape  me,  I  fear  you 
would  consider  it  as  a  mockery  of  your  established  character,  and, 
perhaps,  an  insult  to  your  understanding.  You  have  nice  feelings, 
my  lord,  if  we  may  judge  from  your  resentments.  Cautious,  there- 
fore, of  giving  offence,  where  you  have  so  little  deserved  it,  I  shall 
leave  the  illustration  of  your  virtues  to  other  hands.  Your  friends 
have  a  privilege  to  play  upon  the  easiness  of  your  temper,  or  possibly 
they  are  better  acquainted  with  your  good  qualities  than  I  am.  You 
have  done  good  by  stealth.  The  rest  is  upon  record.  You  have  still 
left  ample  room  for  speculation,  when  panegyric  is  exhausted. 

You  are,  indeed,  a  very  considerable  man.  The  highest  rank ;  a 
splendid  fortune;  and  a  name,  glorious  till  it  was  yours,  were  sufficient 
to  liave  supported  you  with  meaner  abilities  than  I  think  you  pos- 
sess. Fi'om  the  first  you  derived  a  constitutional  claim  to  respect; 
from  the  second,  a  natural  extensive  authority;  the  last  created  a 
partial  expectation  of  hereditary  virtues.  The  use  you  have  made  of 
these  uncommon  advantages  might  have  been  more  honorable  to 
yourself,  but  could  not  be  more  instructive  to  mankind.  We  may 
trace  it  in  the  veneration  of  your  country,  the  choice  of  your  friends, 


278  TEE  LETTERS   OF  JUNIUS.         Cuap.  XVII. 

and  in  the  accomplishment  of  every  sanguine  hope,  which  the  public 
might  have  conceived  from  the  illustrious  name  of  Russell. 

The  eminence  of  your  station  gave  jou  a  commanding  prospect  of 
your  duty.  The  road  which  led  to  honor  was  open  to  your  view. 
You  could  not  lose  it  by  mistake,  and  you  had  no  temptation  to  depart 
from  it  by  design.  Compare  the  natural  dignity  and  importance  of 
the  richest  peer  of  England;  —  the  noble  independence  which  he 
might  have  maintained  in  Parliament,  and  the  real  interest  and  re- 
spect which  he  might  have  acquired,  not  only  in  Parliament,  but 
through  the  whole  kingdom ;  compare  these  glorious  distinctions  with 
the  ambition  of  holding  a  share  in  government,  the  emoluments  of 
a  place,  the  sale  of  a  borough,  or  the  purchase  of  a  corporation ;  and 
though  you  may  not  regret  the  virtues  which  create  respect,  you  may 
see,  with  anguish,  how  much  real  importance  and  authority  you  have 
lost.  Consider  the  character  of  an  independent,  virtuous  Duke  of 
Bedford;  imagine  what  he  might  be  in  this  country,  then  reflect  one 
moment  upon  what  you  are.  If  it  be  possible  for  me  to  withdraw  my 
attention  from  the  fact,  I  will  tell  you  in  theory  what  such  a  man 
might  be. 

Conscious  of  his  own  weight  and  importance,  his  conduct  in  Par- 
liament would  be  directed  by  nothing  but  the  constitutional  duty  of  a 
peer.  He  would  consider  himself  as  a  guardian  of  the  laws.  Willing 
to  support  the  just  measures  of  government,  but  determined  to  ob- 
serve the  conduct  of  the  minister  with  suspicion,  he  would  oppose  the 
violence  of  faction  with  as  much  firmness  as  the  encroachments  of  pre- 
rogative. He  would  be  as  little  capable  of  bargaining  with  the  min- 
ister for  places  for  himself,  or  his  dependants,  as  of  descending  to  mix 
himself  in  the  intrigues  of  opposition.  Whenever  an  important  ques- 
tion called  for  his  opinion  in  Parliament,  he  would  be  heard,  by  the 
most  profligate  minister,  with  deference  and  respect.  His  authority 
would  either  sanctify  or  disgrace  the  measures  of  government.  The 
people  would  look  up  to  him  as  to  their  protector,  and  a  virtuous 
prince  would  have  one  honest  man  in  his  dominions  in  whose  integ- 
rity and  judgment  he  might  safely  confide.  If  it  should  be  the  will 
of  Providence  to  aflflict  him  with  a  domestic  misfortune,  he  would 
submit  to  the  stroke,  with  feeling  but  not  without  dignity.  He  would 
consider  the  people  as  his  children,  and  receive  a  generous,  heartfelt 
consolation,  in  the  sympathizing  tears  and  blessings  of  his  country. 

Your  grace  may  probably  discover  something  more  intelligible  in 
the  negative  part  of  this  illustrious  character.  The  man  I  have  de- 
scribed would  never  prostitute  his  dignity  in  Parliament  by  an  inde- 
cent violence  either  in  opposing  or  defending  a  minister.  He  would 
not  at  one  moment  rancorously  persecute,  at  another  basely  cringe  to 
the  favorite  of  his  sovereign.  After  outraging  the  royal  dignity  with 
peremptory  conditions,  little  short  of  menace  and  hostility',  he  would 
never  descend  to  the  humility  of  soliciting  an  interview  with  the  favor« 
ite,  and  ol  oiferingto  recover,  at  any  price,  the  honor  of  his  friendship. 


A.  D.  1723-1790.  ADAM   SMITH,  ■  279 

Thouarh  deceived  perhaps  in  his  youth,  he  would  not,  through  the 
course  of  a  long  life,  have  invariably  chosen  his  friends  from  among 
the  most  profligate  of  mankind.  His  own  honor  would  have  forbidden 
him  from  mixing  his  private  pleasures  or  conversation  with  jockeys, 
gamesters,  blasphemers,  gladiators,  or  buffoons.  He  would  then  have 
never  felt,  much  less  would  he  have  submitted  to  the  humiliating, 
dishonest  necessity  of  engaging  in  the  interest  and  intrigues  of  his 
dependants,  of  supplying  their  vices,  or  relieving  their  beggary,  at 
the  expense  of  his  country.  He  would  not  have  betrayed  such  igno- 
rance, or  such  contempt  of  the  constitution,  as  openly  to  avow,  in  a 
court  of  justice,  the  purchase  and  sale  of  a  borough.  He  would  not 
have  thought  it  consistent  with  his  rank  in  the  state,  or  even  with  his 
personal  importance,  to  be  the  little  tyrant  of  a  little  corporation. 
He  would  never  have  been  insulted  with  virtues  which  he  had  labored 
to  extinguish,  nor  suffered  the  disgrace  of  a  mortifying  defeat,  which 
has  made  him  ridiculous  and  contemptible,  even  to  the  few  by  whom 
he  was  not  detested.  I  reverence  the  afflictions  of  a  good  man,  — his 
sorrows  are  sacred.  But  how  can  we  take  part  in  the  distresses  of  a 
man  whom  we  can  neither  love  nor  esteem,  or  feel  for  a  calamity  of 
which  he  himself  is  insensible.-*  Where  was  the  father's  heart,  when 
he  could  look  for,  or  find  an  immediate  consolation  for  the  loss  of  an 
only  son,  in  consultations  and  bargains  for  a  place  at  court,  and  even 
in  the  misery  of  balloting  at  the  India  House! 


Adam  vSmith.     i 723-1 790.     (Manual,  p.  342.) 

From    the    "  Wealth    of    Nations." 

224»    On  the  Division  of  Labor. 

Observe  the  accommodation  of  the  most  common  artificer  or  day 
laborer  in  a  civilized  and  thriving  country,  and  you  will  perceive  that 
the  number  of  people  of  whose  industry  a  part,  though  but  a  small 
part,  has  been  employed  in  procuring  him  this  accommodation,  ex- 
ceeds all  computation.  The  woollen  coat,  for  example,  which  covers 
the  day-laborer,  as  coarse  and  rough  as  it  may  appear,  is  the  produce 
of  the  joint  labor  of  a  great  multitude  of  workmen.  The  shepherd, 
the  sorter  of  the  wool,  the  woolcomber  or  carder,  the  dyer,  the  scrib- 
bler, the  spinner,  the  weaver,  the  fuller,  the  dresser,  with  many  others, 
must  all  join  their  different  arts  in  order  to  complete  even  this  homely 
production.  How  many  merchants  and  carriers,  besides,  must  have 
been  employed  in  transporting  the  materials  from  some  of  those  work- 
men to  others ;  who  often  live  in  a  very  distant  part  of  the  country ! 
How  much  commerce  and  navigation  in  particular,  how  many  ship- 
builders, sailors,  sail-makers,  rope-makers,  must  have  been  employed 
in  order  to  bring  together  the  different  drugs  made  use  of  by  the  djei, 
which  often  come  from  the   remotest  corners  of  the  world  !         ♦         • 


280  •  WILLIAM  PALET,  Chap.  XVII 

Were  we  to  examine -in  the  same  manner  all  the  different  parts  of  his 
dress  and  household  furniture,  the  coarse  linen  shirt  which  he  wears 
next  his  skin,  the  shoes  which  cover  his  feet,  the  bed  which  he  Lies 
on,  and  all  the  different  parts  which  compose  it,  the  kitchen  grate  at 
which  he  prepares  his  victuals,  the  coals  which  he  makes  use  of  for 
that  purpose,  dug  from  the  bowels  of  the  earth,  and  brought  to  him 
perhaps  by  a  long  sea  and  a  long  land  carriage,  all  the  other  utensils 
of  his  kitchen,  all  the  furniture  of  his  table,  the  knives  and  forks,  the 
earthen  or  pewter  plates  upon  which  he  serves  up  and  divides  his 
victuals,  the  different  hands  employed  in  preparing  his  bread  and  his 
beer,  the  glass  window  which  lets  in  the  heat  and  the  light,  and  keeps 
out  the  wind  and  the  rain,  with  all  the  knowledge  and  art  requisite 
for  preparing  that  beautiful  and  happj  invention,  without  which  these 
northern  parts  of  the  world  could  scarce  have  afforded  a  very  com- 
fortable habitation,  together  with  the  tools  of  all  the  different  work- 
men employed  in  producing  these  different  conveniences;  —  if  we 
examine,  I  say,  all  these  things,  and  consider  what  a  variety  of  labor 
is  employed  about  each  of  them,  we  shall  be  sensible  that  without 
the  assistance  and  co-operation  of  many  thousands,  the  very  meanest 
person  in  a  civilized  country  could  not  be  provided,  even  according 
to  what  we  very  falsely  imagine,  the  easy  and  simple  manner  in  which 
he  is  commonly  accommodated.  Compared,  indeed,  with  the  more 
extravagant  luxury  of  the  great,  his  accommodation  must  no  doubt 
appear  extremely  simple  and  easy ;  and  yet  it  may  be  true,  perhaps, 
that  the  accommodation  of  an  European  prince  does  not  always  so 
much  exceed  that  of  an  industrious  and  frugal  peasant,  as  the  accom- 
modations of  the  latter  exceeds  that  of  many  an  African  king,  the 
absolute  master  of  the  lives  and  liberties  of  ten  thousand  naked 
savages. 

William  Paley.     i  743-1805.     (Manual,  p.  343.) 

From    the    "  Hor^    Paulina." 

22s,    Character  of  Paul. 

Here  then  we  have  a  man  of  liberal  attainments,  and,  in  other 
points,  of  sound  judgment,  who  had  addicted  his  life  to  the  service 
of  the  gospel.  We  see  him,  in  the  prosecution  of  his  purpose,  travel- 
ling from  country  to  country,  enduring  every  species  of  hardship, 
encountering  every  extremity  of  danger,  assaulted  by  the  populace, 
punished  by  the  magistrates,  scourged,  beat,  stoned,  left  for  dead; 
expecting,  wherever  he  came,  a  renewal  of  the  same  treatment,  and 
the  same  dangers ;  yet,  when  driven  from  one  city,  preaching  in  the 
next;  spending  his  whole  time  in  the  employment,  sacrificing  to  it 
his  pleasures,  his  ease,  his  safety;  persisting  in  this  course  to  old  age, 
unaltered  by  the  experience  of  perverseness,  ingratitude,  prejudice, 
desertion ;  unsubdued  by  anxiety,  want,  labor,  persecutions ;  unwea- 


^.  D.  1743-1805.  WILLIAM   PALET.  281 

ried  by  long  confinement,  undismayed  by  the  prospect  c  f  death.  Such 
was  Paul.  We  have  his  letters  in  our  hands;  we  hav»  also  a  history 
purporting  to  be  written  by  one  of  his  fellow-travellers,  and  appear- 
ing, by  a  comparison  with  these  letters,  certainly  to  have  been  written 
by  some  person  well  acquainted  with  the  transactions  of  his  life. 
From  the  letters,  as  well  as  from  the  history,  we  gather  not  only  the 
account  which  we  have  stated  of  /i/m,  but  that  he  was  one  out  of  many 
who  acted  and  suffered  in  the  same  manner;  and  that  of  those  who 
did  so,  several  had  been  the  companions  of  Christ's  ministry,  the 
ocular  witnesses,  or  pretending  to  be  such,  of  his  miracles  and  of  his 
resurrection.  We  moreover  find  this  same  person  referring  in  his 
letters  to  his  supernatural  conversion,  the  particulars  and  accompa- 
nying circumstances  of  which  are  related  in  the  history;  and  which 
accompanying  circumstances,  if  all  or  any  of  them  be  true,  render  it 
impossible  to  have  been  a  delusion.  We  also  find  him  positively,  and 
in  appropriate  terms,  asserting  that  he  himself  worked  miracles, 
strictly  and  properly  so  called,  in  support  of  the  mission  which  he 
executed ;  the  history,  meanwhile,  recording  various  passages  of  his 
ministry,  which  come  up  to  the  extent  of  this  assertion.  The  ques- 
tion is,  whether  falsehood  was  evfir  attested  by  evidence  like  this. 
Falsehoods,  we  know,  have  found  their  way  into  reports,  into  tradi- 
tion, into  books;  but  is  an  example  to  be  met  with  of  a  man  volunta- 
rily undertaking  a  life  of  want  and  pain,  of  incessant  fatigue,  of  con- 
tinual peril;  submitting  to  the  loss  of  his  home  and  country,  to  stripes 
and  stoning,  to  tedious  imprisonment,  and  the  constant  expectation 
of  a  violent  death,  for  the  sake  of  carrying  about  a  story  of  what  was 
false,  and  what,  if  false,  he  must  have  known  to  be  so? 


282  ROBERT  BLAIR.  Chap.  XVIll 


-     CHAPTER  XVIII. 

THE    DAWN    OF    ROMANTIC    POETRY. 


226,  Robert  Blair,     i 699-1 746.    (Manual,  p.  350.) 

From  "The  Grave." 

Thrice  welcome  Death ! 
That,  after  many  a  painful  bleeding  step, 
Conducts  us  to  our  home,  and  lands  us  safe 
On  the  long-wished-for  shore.     Prodigious  change ! 
Our  bane  turned  to  a  blessing!     Death,  disarmed, 
Loses  his  fellness  quite;  all  thanks  to  Him 
Who  scourged  the  venom  out.     Sure  the  last  end 
Of  the  good  man  is  peace!     How  calm  his  exit! 
Night-dews  fall  not  more  gently  to  the  ground, 
Nor  weary,  worn-out  winds  expire  so  soft. 
Behold  him !  in  the  evening  tide  of  life, 
A  life  well  spent,  whose  early  care  it  was 
His  riper  years  should  not  upbraid  his  green  : 
By  unperceived  degrees  he  wears  away ; 
Yet,  like  the  sun,  seems  larger  at  his  setting! 
High  in  his  faith  and  hopes,  look  how  he  reaches 
After  the  prize  in  view!  and,  like  a  bird 
That's  hampered,  struggles  hard  to  get  away! 
Whilst  the  glad  gates  of  sight  are  wide  expanded 
To  let  new  glories  in,  the  first  fair  fruits 
Of  the  fast-coming  harvest.     Then,  O,  then. 
Each  earth-born  joy  grows  vile,  or  disappears, 
Shrunk  to  a  thing  of  nought!     O,  how  he  longs 
To  have  his  passport  signed,  and  be  dismissed ! 
'Tis  done  —  and  now  he's  happy !     The  glad  soul 
Has  not  a  wish  uncrowned. 


^.  D.  1700-1748.  JAMES    THOMSON.  283 

James  Thomson,     i 700-1 748.     (Manual,  p.  351.) 

From   "Autumn." 

227 •    Evening  in  Autumn. 

The  western  sun  withdraws  the  shortened  day, 

And  humid  evening,  gliding  o'er  the  sky 

In  her  chill  progress,  to  the  ground  condensed 

The  vapors  throws.     Where  creeping  waters  ooze, 

Where  marshes  stagnate,  and  where  rivers  wind, 

Cluster  the  rolling  fogs,  and  swim  along 

The  dusky-mantled  lawn.     Meanwhile  the  moon, 

Full-orbed,  and  breaking  through  the  scattered  clouds, 

Shows  her  broad  visage  in  the  crimson  east. 

Turned  to  the  sun  direct,  her  spotted  disk, 

Where  mountains  rise,  umbrageous  dales  descend, 

And  caverns  deep,  as  optic  tube  descries, 

A  smaller  earth,  gives  us  his  blaze  again, 

\''oid  o{  its  flame,  and  sheds  a  softer  day. 

Now  through  the  passing  cloud  she  seems  to  stoop, 

Now  up  the  pure  cerulean  rides  sublime. 

Wide  the  pale  deluge  floats,  and  streaming  mild 

O'er  the  skied  mountain  to  the  shadowy  vale. 

While  rocks  and  floods  reflect  the  quivering  gleam. 

The  whole  air  whitens  with  a  boundless  tide 

Of  silver  radiance,  trembling  round  the  world. 


From  "  Winter." 
22S»    Reflections  suggested  by  Winter. 

'Tis  done  !  —  Dread  Winter  spreads  his  latest  glooms, 

And  reigns  tremendous  o'er  the  conquered  year. 

How  dead  the  vegetable  kingdom  lies  ! 

How  dumb  the  tuneful !     Horror  wide  extends 

His  desolate  domain.     Behold,  fond  man  ! 

See  here  thy  pictured  life ;  pass  some  few  years, 

Thy  flowering  Spring,  thy  Summer's  ardent  strength, 

Thy  sober  Autumn  fading  into  age. 

And  pale  concluding  Winter  comes  at  last, 

And  shuts  the  scene.     Ah !  whither  now  are  fled 

Those  dreams  of  greatness.-*  those  unsolid  hopes 

Of  happiness.^  those  longings  after  fame.-* 

Those  restless  cares.'  those  busy,  bustling  days? 

Those  gay-spent,  festive  nights.?  those  veering  thoughts, 

Lost  between  good  and  ill,  that  shared  thy  life."* 


284  JAMES   THOMSON.  Chap.  XVIIL 

All  now  are  vanished !     Virtue  sole  survives, 

Immortal  never-failing  friend  of  man, 

His  guide  to  happiness  on  high.     And  see! 

'Tis  come,  the  glorious  morn!  the  second  birth 

Of  heaven  and  earth !  awakening  Nature  hears 

The  new-creating  word,  and  starts  to  life, 

In  every  heightened  form,  from  pain  and  death 

Forever  free.     The  great  eternal  scheme, 

Involving  all,  and  in  a  perfect  whole 

Uniting,  as  the  prospect  wider  spreads, 

To  reason's  eye  refined,  clears  up  apace. 

Ye  vainly  wise  !  ye  blind  presumptuous  !  now, 

Confounded  in  the  dust,  adore  that  Power 

And  Wisdom  oft  arraigned  :  see  now  the  cause, 

Why  unassuming  worth  in  secret  lived, 

And  died,  neglected  :  why  the  good  man's  share 

In  life  was  gall  and  bitterness  of  soul : 

Why  the  lone  widow  and  her  orphans  pined 

In  starving  solitude!  while  Luxury, 

In  palaces,  lay  straining  her  low  thought, 

To  form  unreal  wants  :  why  heaven-born  Truth, 

And  Moderation  fair,  wore  the  red  marks 

Of  Superstition's  scourge  :  why  licensed  Pain, 

That  cruel  spoiler,  that  imbosomed  foe, 

Imbittered  all  our  bliss.     Ye  good  distressed! 

Ye  noble  few!  who  here  unbending  stand 

Beneath  life's  pressure,  yet  bear  up  a  while. 

And  what  your  bounded  view,  which  only  saw 

A  little  part,  deemed  evil  is  no  more : 

The  storms  of  wintry  Time  will  quickly  pass. 

And  one  unbounded  Spring  encircle  all. 


229*   From  "  The  Castle  of  Indolence." 

O  mortal  man,  who  livest  here  by  toil. 
Do  not  complain  of  this  thy  hard  estate; 
That  like  an  emmet  thou  must  ever  moil 
Is  a  sad  sentence  of  an  ancient  date, 
And,  certes,  there  is  for  it  reason  great; 
For,  though  sometimes  it  makes  thee  weep  and  wail, 
And  curse  thy  star,  and  early  drudge  and  late, 
Withouten  that  would  come  a  heavier  bale,' 
Loose  life,  unruly  passions,  and  diseases  pale. 

In  lowly  dale,  fast  by  a  river's  side, 

With  woody  hill  o'er  hill  encompassed  round, 

i 

I  Calamity. 


A.  D.  1714-1763.         WILLIAM  SEENSTONE.  286 

A  most  enchanting  wizard  did  abide, 
Than  whom  a  fiend  more  fell  is  nowhere  found. 
It  was,  I  ween,  a  lovely  spot  of  ground  : 
And  there  a  season  atween  June  and  May, 
Half-prankt  with  spring,  with  summer  half-imbrowned, 
A  listless  climate  made,  where,  sooth  to  say, 
No  living  wight  could  work,  ne  cared  e'en  for  play. 

Was  nought  around  but  images  of  rest; 
Sleep-soothing  groves,  and  quiet  lawns  between  ; 
And  flowery  beds  that  slumberous  influence  kest,' 
From  poppies  breathed;  and  beds  of  pleasant  green, 
Where  never  yet  was  creeping  creature  seen. 
Meantime,  unnumbered  glittering  streamlets  played, 
And  hurled  everywhere  their  waters  sheen ; 
That  as  they  bickered  through  the  sunny  glade. 
Though  restless  still  themselves,  a  lulling  murmur  made. 

Joined  to  the  prattle  of  the  purling  rills 
Were  heard  the  lowing  herds  along  the  vale, 
And  flocks  loud  bleating  from  the  distant  hills, 
And  vacant  shepherds  piping  in  the  dale  : 
And  now  and  then  sweet  Philomel  would  wail. 
Or  stock-doves  'plain  amid  the  forest  deep, 
That  drowsy  rustled  to  the  sighing  gale; 
And  still  a  coiP  the  grasshopper  did  keep; 
Yet  all  these  sounds  yblent"*  inclined  all  to  sleep. 

2  Cast.  8  A  murmur,  or  noise.  4  Blended. 


William  Shenstone.     1714-1763.     (Manual,  p.  353  ) 

230,   The  Shepherd's  Home. 

My  banks  they  are  furnished  with  bees, 

Whose  murmur  invites  one  to  sleep ; 
My  grottos  are  shaded  with  trees. 

And  my  hills  are  white  over  with  sheep. 
I  seldom  have  met  with  a  loss. 

Such  health  do  my  fountains  bestow; 
My  fountains  are  bordered  with  moss, 

Where  the  harebells  and  violets  blow. 

Not  a  p'ne  in  my  grove  is  there  seen. 
But  with  tendrils  of  woodbine  is  bound; 

Not  a  beech's  more  beautiful  green. 
But  a  sweet-brier  entwines  it  around. 


286  WILLIAM  COLLINS,  Chap.  XVI IL 

Not  my  fields,  in  the  prime  of  the  year, 

More  charms  than  my  cattle  unfold; 
Not  a  brook  that  is  limpid  and  clear, 

But  it  glitters  with  fishes  of  gold. 

One  would  think  she  might  like  to  retire 

To  the  bower  I  have  labored  to  rear; 
Not  a  shrub  that  I  heard  her  admire, 

But  I  hasted  and  planted  it  there. 
O,  how  sudden  the  jessamine  strove 

With  the  lilac  to  render  it  gay! 
Already  it  calls  for  my  love 

To  prune  the  wild  branches  away. 

From  the  plains,  from  the  woodlands,  and  groves. 

What  strains  of  wild  melody  flow! 
How  the  nightingales  warble  their  loves 

From  thickets  of  roses  that  blow! 
And  when  her  bright  form  shall  appear, 

Each  bird  shall  harmoniously  join 
In  a  concert  so  soft  and  so  clear, 

As  —  she  may  not  be  fond  to  resign. 

I  have  found  out  a  gift  for  my  fair, 

I  have  found  where  the  wood-pigeons  breed;  — 
But  let  me  such  plunder  forbear, 

She  will  say  'twas  a  barbarous  deed; 
For  he  ne'er  could  be  true,  she  averred. 

Who  would  rob  a  poor  bird  of  its  young; 
And  I  loved  her  the  more  when  I  heard 

Such  tenderness  fall  from  her  tongue. 

I  have  heard  her  with  sweetness  unfold 

How  that  pity  was  due  to  a  dove ; 
That  it  ever  attended  the  bold. 

And  she  called  it  the  sister  of  love. 
But  her  words  such  a  pleasure  convey, 

So  much  I  her  accent  adore, 
Let  her  speak,  and  whatever  she  say, 

Methinks  I  should  love  her  the  more. 


William  Collins.     1721-1759.     (Manual,  p.  353.) 

231  •    Ode  to  Fear. 

Thou,  to  whom  the  world  unknown, 
With  all  its  shadowy  shapes,  is  shown, 
Who  seest  appalled  the  unreal  scene, 
While  Fancy  lifts  the  veil  between : 


k,  D.  1721-1770.  MABK  AKENSIDE.  287 

Ah,  Fear!  ah,  frantic  Fear! 

I  see  —  I  see  thee  near. 
I  know  thy  hurried  step,  thy  haggard  eye ! 
Like  thee  I  start,  like  thee  disordered  flj, 
For,  lo,  what  monsters  in  thy  train  appear! 
Danger,  whose  limbs  of  giant  mould 
What  mortal  eye  can  fixed  behold? 
Who  stalks  his  round,  a  hideous  form, 
Howling  amidst  the  midnight  storm, 
Or  throws  him  on  the  ridgy  steep 
Of  some  loose  hanging  rock  to  sleep : 
And  with  him  thousand  phantoms  joined. 
Who  prompt  to  deeds  accursed  the  mind : 
And  those,  the  fiends,  who  near  allied, 
O'er  nature's  wounds  and  wrecks  preside; 
While  Vengeance,  in  the  lurid  air, 
Lifts  her  red  arm,  exposed  and  bare  : 
On  whom  that  ravening  brood  of  fate, 
Who  lap  the  blood  of  Sorrow,  wait; 
Who,  Fear,  this  ghastly  train  can  see, 
And  look  not  madly  wild,  like  thee.^ 


Mark  Akenside.     i  721-1770.     (Manuai,  p.  354.) 

From  "The  Pleasures  of  the  Imagination." 

232,    Genius. 

From  Heaven  my  strains  begin;  from  Heaven  descends 

The  flame  of  genius  to  the  human  breast, 

And  love,  and  beauty,  and  poetic  joy, 

And  inspiration.     Ere  the  radiant  Sun 

Sprang  from  the  east,  or  'midst  the  vault  of  night 

The  Moon  suspended  her  serener  lamp ; 

Ere  mountains,  woods,  or  streams  adorned  the  globe. 

Or  Wisdom  taught  the  sons  of  men  her  lore; 

Then  lived  th'  almighty  One ;  then,  deep  retired 

In  his  unfathomed  essence,  viewed  the  forms, 

The  forms  eternal  of  created  things ; 

The  radiant  sun,  the  moon's  nocturnal  lamp. 

The  mountains,  woods,  and  streams,  the  rolling  globe, 

And  Wisdom's  mien  celestial.     From  the  first 

Of  days  on  them  his  love  divine  he  fixed. 

His  admiration:  till  in  time  complete. 

What  he  admired,  and  loved,  his  vital  smile 

Unfolded  into  being.     Hence  the  breath 

Of  life  informing  each  organic  frame; 

Hence  the  green  earth,  and  wild  resounding  waves; 


288  THOMAS   QUAY.  Chap.   XVIII 

Hence  light  and  shade  alternate;  warmth  and  cold; 
And  clear  autumnal  skies,  and  vernal  showers; 
And  all  the  fair  variety  of  things. 

But  not  alike  to  every  mortal  eye 
Is  this  great  scene  unveiled.     For  since  the  claims 
Of  social  life  to  different  labors  urge 
The  active  powers  of  man ;  with  wise  intent 
The  hand  of  Nature  on  peculiar  minds 
Imprints  a  different  bias,  and  to  each 
*  Decrees  its  province  in  the  common  toil. 

To  some  she  taught  the  fabric  of  the  sphere, 

The  changeful  moon,  the  circuit  of  the  stars, 

The  golden  zones  of  Heaven  :  to  some  she  gave 

To  weigh  the  moment  of  eternal  things, 

Of  time,  and  space,  and  fate's  unbroken  chain; 

And  will's  quick  impulse :  others  by  the  hand 

She  led  o'er  vales  and  mountains,  to  explore  /' 

What  healing  virtue  swells  the  tender  veins 

Of  herbs  a:id  flowers ;  or  what  the  beams  of  morn 

Draw  forth,  distilling  from  the  clifted  rind 

In  balmy  tears.     But  some  to  higher  hopes 

Were  destined  :  some  within  a  finer  mould 

She  wrought  and  tempered  with  a  purer  flame. 

To  these  the  Sire  Omnipotent  unfolds 

The  world's  harmonious  volume,  there  to  read 

The  transcript  of  himself.     On  every  part 

They  trace  the  bright  impressions  of  his  hand. 

In  earth,  or  air,  the  meadow's  purple  stores. 

The  moon's  mild  radiance,  or  the  virgin's  form 

Blooming  with  rosy  smiles,  they  see  portrayed 

That  uncreated  Beauty  which  delights 

The  Mind  supreme.     They  also  feel  her  charms, 

Enamoured  :  they  partake  th'  eternal  joy. 


Thomas  Gray.     1716-1771.     (Manual,  p.  355.) 
233*    Elegy  written  in  a  Country  Churchyarp, 

The  curfew  tolls  the  knell  of  parting  day, 
The  lowing  herd  wind  slowly  o'er  the  lea, 

The  ploughman  homewards  plods  his  weary  way, 
And  leaves  the  world  to  darkness  and  to  me. 

Now  fades  the  glimmering  landscape  on  the  sight. 
And  all  the  air  a  solemn  stillness  holds, 

Save  where  the  beetle  wheels  his  droning  flight, 
And  drowsy  tinklings  lull  the  distant  folds : 


A.  D.  1716-1771.  THOMAS    GRAY.  289 

Save  that,  from  j'onder  ivy-mantled  tower, 
The  moping  owl  does  to  the  moon  complain 

Of  such  as,  wandering  near  her  secret  bower, 
Molest  her  ancient  solitary  reign. 

Beneath  those  rugged  elms,  that  yew-tree's  shade, 
Where  heaves  the  turf  in  many  a  mouldering  heap. 

Each  in  his  narrow  cell  forever  laid. 
The  rude  forefathers  of  the  hamlet  sleep. 

The  breezy  call  of  incense-breathing  Morn, 

The  swallow  twittering  from  the  straw-built  shed. 

The  cock's  shrill  clarion,  or  the  echoing  horn, 
No  more  shall  rouse  them  from  their  lowly  bed. 

For  them  no  more  the  blazing  hearth  shall  burn. 

Or  busy  housewife  ply  her  evening  care ; 
No  children  run  to  lisp  their  sire's  return, 

Or  climb  his  knees,  the  envied  kiss  to  share. 

Oft  did  the  harvest  to  their  sickle  yield, 

Their  furrow  oft  the  stubborn  glebe  has  broke ; 

How  jocund  did  they  drive  their  team  afield ! 
How  bowed  the  woods  beneath  their  sturdy  stroke  I 

Let  not  Ambition  mock  their  useful  toil. 

Their  homelj'  joys,  and  destiny  obscure; 
Nor  Grandeur  hear  with  a  disdainful  smile 

The  short  and  simple  annals  of  the  poor. 

The  boast  of  heraldry,  the  pomp  of  power, 
And  all  that  beauty,  all  that  wealth  e'er  gave. 

Await  alike  the  inevitable  hour : 

The  paths  of  glory  lead  but  to  the  grave. 

Nor  you,  ye  Proud !  impute  to  these  the  fault. 
If  Memory  o'er  their  tomb  no  trophies  raise. 

Where,  through  the  long-drawn  aisle  and  fretted  vaults 
The  pealing  anthem  swells  the  note  of  praise. 

Can  storied  urn  or  animated  bust 

Back  to  its  mansion  call  the  fleeting  breath? 

Can  Honor's  voice  provoke  the  silent  dust, 
Or  Flattery  soothe  the  dull  cold  ear  of  death? 

Perhaps  in  this  neglected  spot  is  laid 

Some  heart  once  pregnant  with  celestial  fire; 

Hands  that  the  rod  of  empire  might  have  swayed, 
Or  waked  to  ecstasy  the  living  lyre. 
19 


290  THOMAS   GRAY.  Chap.  XVIIL 

But  Knowledge  to  their  eyes  her  ample  page, 
Rich  with  the  spoils  of  Time,  did  ne'er  unrol! ; 

Chill  Penury  repressed  their  noble  rage, 
And  froze  the  genial  current  of  the  soul. 

Full  many  a  gem  of  purest  ray  serene 
The  dark  unfathomed  caves  of  ocean  bear; 

Full  many  a  flower  is  born  to  blush  unseen. 
And  waste  its  sweetness  on  the  desert  air. 

Some  village  Hampden,  that  with  dauntless  breast 

The  little  tyrant  of  his  fields  withstood, 
Some  mute  inglorious  Milton  here  may  rest. 

Some  Cromwell,  guiltless  of  his  country's  blood. 

The  applause  of  listening  senates  to  command. 

The  threats  of  pain  and  ruin  to  despise, 
To  scatter  plenty  o'er  a  smiling  land. 

And  read  their  history  in  a  nation's  eyes, 

Their  lot  forbade ;  nor  circumscribed  alone 

Their  growing  virtues,  but  their  crimes  confined 

Forbade  to  wade  through  slaughter  to  a  throne, 
And  shut  the  gates  of  Mercy  on  mankind, 

The  struggling  pangs  of  conscious  Truth  to  hide. 
To  quench  the  blushes  of  ingenuous  Shame, 

Or  heap  the  shrine  of  Luxury  and  Pride 
With  incense  kindled  at  the  Muse's  flame. 

Far  from  the  madding  crowd's  ignoble  strife. 
Their  sober  wishes  never  learned  to  stray ; 

Along  the  cool  sequestered  vale  of  life 
They  kept  the  noiseless  tenor  of  their  way. 

Yet  e'en  these  bones  from  insult  to  protect. 

Some  frail  memorial  still  erected  nigh, 
With  uncouth  rhymes  and  shapeless  sculpture  decked. 

Implores  the  passing  tribute  of  a  sigh. 

Their  name,  their  years,  spelt  by  th'  unlettered  Muse, 

The  place  of  fame  and  elegy  supply, 
And  many  a  holy  text  around  she  strews, 

That  teach  the  rustic  moralist  to  die. 

For  who,  to  dumb  Forgetfulness  a  prey, 
This  pleasing,  anxious  being  e'er  resigned. 

Left  the  warm  precincts  of  the  cheerful  day. 
Nor  cast  one  longing,  lingering  look  behind? 


A.  D.  1716-1771.  THOMAS    GRAY,  291 

On  some  fond  breast  the  parting  soul  relies, 
Some  pious  drops  the  closing  eje  requires; 

E'en  from  the  tomb  the  voice  of  Nature  cries, 
E'en  in  our  ashes  live  their  wonted  fires. 

For  thee,  who,  mindful  of  th'  unhonored  dead, 
Dost  in  those  lines  their  artless  tale  relate. 

If  chance,  by  lonely  Contemplation  led, 
Some  kindred  spirit  shall  inquire  thy  fate, 

Haply  some  hoary-headed  swain  may  say, 
*'  Oft  have  we  seen  him,  at  the  peep  of  dawn, 

Brushing  with  hasty  steps  the  dews  away, 
To  meet  the  sun  upon  the  upland  lawn. 

"  There,  at  the  foot  of  yonder  nodding  beech, 
That  wreathes  its  old  fantastic  root  so  high, 

His  listless  length  at  noontide  would  he  stretch, 
And  pore  upon  the  brook  that  babbles  by. 

"  Hard  by  yon  wood,  now  smiling  as  in  scorn, 
Muttering  his  wayward  fancies,  he  would  rove; 

Now  drooping,  woful,  wan,  like  one  forlorn. 

Or  crazed  with  care,  or  crossed  in  hopeless  love. 

'*  One  morn  I  missed  him  on  the  accustomed  hill, 
Along  the  heath,  and  near  his  favorite  tree; 

Another  came,  nor  yet  beside  the  rill, 
Nor  up  the  lawn,  nor  at  the  wood,  was  he  : 

"  The  next,  with  dirges  due,  in  sad  array. 

Slow  through  the  churchway-path  we  saw  him  borne. 

Approach,  and  read  (for  thou  canst  read)  the  lay 
Graved  on  the  stone  beneath  yon  aged  thorn  :  " 

THE   EPITAPH. 

Here  rests  his  head  upon  the  lap  of  Earth 
A  youth  to  Fortune  and  to  Fame  unknown  : 

Fair  Science  frowned  not  on  his  humble  birth, 
And  Melancholy  marked  him  for  her  own. 

Large  was  his  bounty,  and  his  soul  sincere; 

Heaven  did  a  recompense  as  largely  send  : 
He  gave  to  misery  all  he  had  —  a  tear; 

He  gained  from  Heaven  —  'twas  all  he  wished  —  a  friend. 

No  further  seek  his  merits  to  disclose, 

Or  draw  his  frailties  from  their  dread  abode 

CThere  they  alike  in  trembling  hope  repose). 
The  bosom  of  his  Father  and  his  God. 


292  THOMAS   GRAY.  Chap.  XIVIL 


234:»   On  a  Distant  Prospect  of  Eton  College. 

Ye  distant  spires  I  ye  antique  towers  I 

That  crown  the  watery  glade 
Where  grateful  Science  still  adores 

Her  Henry's  holy  shade; 
And  ye  that  from  the  stately  brow 
Of  Windsor's  heights  th'  expanse  below 

Of  grove,  of  lawn,  of  mead  survey, 
Whose  turf,  whose  shade,  whose  flowers  among 
Wanders  the  hoary  Thames  along 

His  silver-winding  way : 

Ah,  happy  hills  I  ah,  pleasing  shade  I 

Ah,  fields  beloved  in  vain  ! 
Where  once  my  careless  childhood  strayed, 

A  stranger  yet  to  pain  ! 
I  feel  the  gales  that  from  ye  blow 
A  momentary  bliss  bestow. 

As,  waving  fresh  their  gladsome  wing, 
My  weary  soul  they  seem  to  soothe, 
And,  redolent  of  joy  and  youth. 

To  breathe  a  second  spring. 

Say,  father  Thames  !  for  thou  hast  seen 

Full  many  a  sprightly  race, 
Disporting  on  thy  margent  green. 

The  paths  of  pleasure  trace  : 
Who  foremost  now  delight  to  cleave 
With  pliant  arm  thy  glassy  wave? 

I'ne  captive  linnet  which  inthrall? 
What  idle  progeny  succeed 
To  chase  the  rolling  circle's  speed. 

Or  urge  the  flying  ball.? 

While  some,  on  earnest  business  bent. 

Their  murmuring  labors  ply, 
'Gainst  graver  hours,  that  bring  constraintt 

To  sweeten  liberty; 
Some  bold  adventurers  disdain 
The  limits  of  their  little  reign. 

And  unknown  regions  dare  descry, 
Still  as  they  run  they  look  behind. 
They  hear  a  voice  in  every  wind, 

And  snatch  a  fearful  joy. 

Gay  Hope  is  theirs,  by  Fancy  fed, 
Less  pleasing  when  possessed: 


A.  D.  1716-1771.  THOMAS   GRAY.  293 

The  tear  forgot  as  soon  as  shed, 

The  sunshine  of  the  breast; 
Theirs  buxom  health  of  rosy  hue, 
Wild  wit,  invention  ever  new, 

And  lively  cheer,  of  vigor  born  ; 
The  thoughtless  day,  the  easy  night, 
The  spirits  pure,  the  slumbers  light, 

That  fly  the  approach  of  morn. 

Alas!  regardless  of  their  doom. 

The  little  victims  play; 
No  sense  have  they  of  ills  to  come, 

Nor  care  beyond  to-day: 
Yet  see  how  all  around  them  wait. 
The  ministers  of  human  fate, 

And  black  Misfortune's  baleful  train  ! 
Ah !  show  them  where  in  ambush  stand. 
To  seize  their  prey,  the  murderous  band  I 

Ah  !  tell  them  they  are  men  ! 

*  *  9|(  *  4i  D^ 

To  each  his  sufferings ;  all  are  men 

Condemned  alike  to  groan  : 
The  tender  for  another's  pain, 

Th'  unfeeling  for  his  own. 
Yet  ah !  why  should  they  know  their  fate, 
Since  sorrow  never  comes  too  late, 

And  happiness  too  swiftly  flies? 
Thought  would  destroy  their  paradise  — 
No  more  !  Where  ignorance  is  bliss, 

'Tis  folly  to  be  wise. 


235,  The  Progress  of  Poesy. 
I. 

Awake,  ^olian  lyre  !  awake. 

And  give  to  rapture  all  thy  trembling  strings  I 
From  Helicon's  harmonious  springs 

A  thousand  rills  their  mazy  progress  take; 

The  laughing  flowers,  that  round  them  blow. 

Drink  life  and  fragrance  as  they  flow. 

Now  the  rich  stream  of  music  winds  along. 

Deep,  majestic,  smooth,  and  strong. 

Through  verdant  vales  and  Ceres'  golden  reign; 

Now  rolling  down  the  steep  amain. 

Headlong,  impetuous,  see  it  pour; 
The  rocks  and  nodding  groves  rebellow  to  the  roar. 
****** 


294  THOMAS   GRAY,  Chap.  XIII. 


II. 

Woods  that  wave  o'er  Delphi's  steep, 
Isles  that  crown  th'  ^gean  deep, 

Fields  that  cool  Ilissus  laves, 

Or  where  Meander's  amber  waves 
In  lingering  labyrinths  creep, 
How  do  your  tuneful  echoes  languish, 
Mute  but  to  the  voice  of  Anguish? 
Where  each  old  poetic  mountain 

Inspiration  breathed  around; 
Every  shade  and  hallowed  fountain 

Murmured  deep  a  solemn  sound, 
Till  the  sad  Nine,  in  Greece's  evil  hour, 

Left  their  Parnassus  for  the  Latian  plains. 
Alike  they  scorn  the  pomp  of  tyrant  Power 

And  coward  Vice,  that  revels  in  her  chains. 
When  Latium  had  her  lofty  spirit  lost, 
They  sought,  O  Albion  !  next  thy  sea-encircled  coast. 


III. 

Far  from  the  sun  and  summer-gale, 

In  thy  green  lap  was  Nature's  darling  laid, 
What  time,  where  lucid  Avon  strayed, 

To  him  the  mighty  Mother  did  unveil 

Her  awful  face ;  the  dauntless  child 

Stretched  forth  his  little  arms,  and  smiled. 

This  pencil  take  (she  said)  whose  colors  clear 

Richly  paint  the  vernal  year; 

Thine,  too,  these  golden  keys,  immortal  Boy! 

This  can  unlock  the  gates  of  Joy, 

Of  Horror  that,  and  thrilling  Fears, 
Or  ope  the  sacred  source  of  sympathetic  Tears. 

Nor  second  He  that  rode  sublime 

Upon  the  seraph-wings  of  Ecstasy; 

The  secrets  of  th'  abyss  to  spy, 
He  passed  the  flaming  bounds  of  place  and  time; 
The  living  throne,  the  sapphire-blaze. 
Where  angels  tremble  while  they  gaze. 
He  saw;  but  blasted  with  excess  of  light. 
Closed  his  eyes  in  endless  night. 
Behold  where  Dryden's  less  presumptuous  car 
Wide  o'er  the  fields  of  glory  bear 
Two  coursers  of  ethereal  race. 
With  necks  in  thunder  clothed  and  long-resounding  pac» 


1.  D   1731-1800.  WILLIAM  GOWPER.  29^ 

Hark!  his  hands  the  lyre  explore! 
Bright-eyed  Fancy,  hovering  o'er, 

Scatters  from  her  pictured  urn 

Thoughts  that  breathe  and  words  that  burn; 
But  ah  !  'tis  heard  no  more. 
O  lyre  divine!  what  dying  spirit 
Wakes  thee  now?  though  he  inherit 
Nor  the  pride  nor  ample  pinion 

That  the  Theban  eagle  bear, 
Sailing  with  supreme  dominion 

Through  the  azure  deep  of  air, 
Yet  oft  before  his  infant  eyes  would  run 

Such  forms  as  glitter  in  the  Muse's  ray 
With  orient  hues,  unborrowed  of  the  sun; 

Yet  shall  he  mount,  and  keep  his  distant  way 
Beyond  the  limits  of  a  vulgar  fate. 
Beneath  the  good  hew  far  —  but  far  above  the  great. 


V\  iLLiAM    CowPER.      1731-1800.     (Manual,  p.  357.) 

From  "The  Task." 

2«J0,   On  the  Receipt  of  my  Mother's  Picture  out  of 
Norfolk,  the  Gift  of  my  Cousin,  Ann  Bodham. 

O  that  those  lips  had  language !  Life  has  passed 
With  me  but  roughly  since  I  heard  thee  last. 
Those  lips  are  thine  —  thy  own  sweet  smile  I  see. 
The  same  that  oft  in  childhood  solaced  me; 
Voice  only  fails,  else  how  distinct  they  say, 
"Grieve  not,  my  child;  chase  all  thy  fears  away!  " 
The  meek  intelligence  of  those  dear  eyes 
(Blest  be  the  art  that  can  immortalize, 
The  art  that  baffles  Time's  tyrannic  claim 
To  quench  it)  here  shines  on  me  still  the  same. 

Faithful  remembrancer  of  one  so  dear, 
O  welcome  guest,  though  unexpected  here ! 
Who  bidd'st  me  honor  with  an  artless  song, 
Affectionate,  a  mother  lost  so  long, 
r  will  obey,  not  willingly  alone. 
But  gladly,  as  the  precept  were  her  own : 
And,  while  that  face  renews  my  filial  grief, 
Fancy  shall  weave  a  charm  for  my  relief, 
Shall  steep  me  in  Elysian  reverie, 
A  momentary  dream,  that  thou  art  she. 

My  mother!  when  I  learned  that  thou  wast  dead* 
Say,  wast  thou  conscious  of  the  tears  I  shed.'' 
Hovered  thy  spirit  o'er  thy  sorrowing  son. 
Wretch  even  then,  life's  journey  just  begun? 


296  WILLIAM  COWPEB.  Chap.  XVin 

Perhaps  thou  gav'st  me,  though  unfelt,  a  kiss ; 

Perhaps  a  tear,  if  souls  can  weep  in  bliss : 

Ah,  that  maternal  smile !  it  answers.  Yes. 

I  heard  the  bell  tolled  on  thy  burial  day, 

I  saw  the  hearse  that  bore  thee  slow  awaj, 

And,  turning  from  my  nursery  window,  drew 

A  long,  long  sigh,  and  wept  a  last  adieu ! 

But  was  it  such?  —  It  was.  —  Where  thou  art  gone 

Adieus  and  farewells  are  a  sound  unknown. 

May  I  but  meet  thee  on  that  peaceful  shore, 

The  parting  word  shall  pass  my  lips  no  more  \ 

Thy  maidens,  grieved  themselves  at  my  concern. 

Oft  gave  me  promise  of  thy  quick  return. 

What  ardently  I  wished,  I  long  believed. 

And,  disappointed  still,  was  still  deceived. 

By  expectation  every  day  beguiled, 

Dupe  of  to-morrow  even  from  a  child. 

Thus  many  a  sad  to-morrow  came  and  went. 

Till,  all  my  stock  of  infant  sorrows  spent, 

I  learned  at  last  submission  to  my  lot, 

But,  though  I  less  deplored  thee,  ne'er  forgot. 

Where  once  we  dwelt  our  name  is  heard  no  more; 
Children  not  thine  have  trod  my  nursery  floor; 
And  where  the  gardener  Robin,  day  by  day, 
Drew  me  to  school  along  the  public  way. 
Delighted  with  my  bawble  coach,  and  wrapped 
In  scarlet  mantle  warm,  and  velvet  cap,  — 
Tis  now  become  a  history  but  little  known, 
That  once  we  called  the  pastoral  house  our  own. 
Short-lived  possession  !  but  the  record  fair, 
That  memory  keeps  of  all  thy  kindness  there. 
Still  outlives  many  a  storm,  that  has  effaced 
A  thousand  other  themes  less  deeply  traced. 
Thy  nightly  visits  to  my  chamber  made, 
That  thou  might'st  know  me  safe  and  warmly  laid; 
Thy  morning  bounties  ere  I  left  my  home ; 
The  biscuit,  or  confectionery  plum  ; 
The  fragrant  waters  on  my  cheeks  bestowed 
By  thy  own  hand,  till  fresh  they  shone  and  glowed, — 
All  this,  and  more  endearing  still  than  all, 
Thy  constant  flow  of  love,  that  knew  no  fall. 
Ne'er  roughened  by  those  cataracts  and  breaks. 
That  humor  interposed  too  often  makes ; 
All  this  still  legible  in  memory's  page, 
And  still  to  be  so  to  my  latest  age. 
Adds  joy  to  duty,  makes  me  glad  to  pay 
Such  honors  to  thee  as  my  numbers  may ; 


A..  D.  1731-1800.  WILLIAM  COWPER.  297 

Perhaps  a  frail  memorial,  but  sincere, 

Not  scorned  in  Heaven,  though  little  noticed  here. 

Could  Time,  his  flight  reversed,  restore  the  hours, 

When  playing  with  thy  vesture's  tissued  flowers, 

The  violet,  the  pink,  the  jessamine, 

I  prxked  them  into  paper  with  a  pin. 

And  thou  wast  happier  than  myself  the  while, 

Wouldst  softly  speak,  and  stroke  my  head,  and  smile. 

Could  those  few  pleasant  days  again  appear, 

Might  one  wish  bring  them,  would  I  wish  them  here? 

I  would  not  trust  my  heart  —  the  dear  delight 

Seems  so  to  be  desired,  perhaps  I  might. 

But  no  —  what  here  we  call  our  life  is  such, 

So  little  to  be  loved,  and  thou  so  much. 

That  I  should  ill  requite  thee  to  constrain 

Thy  unbound  spirit  into  bonds  again. 

Thou,  as  a  gallant  bark  from  Albion's  coast 

(The  storms  all  weathered  and  the  ocean  crossed) 

Shoots  into  port  at  some  well-havened  isle, 

Where  spices  breathe  and  brighter  seasons  smile, 

There  sits  quiescent  on  the  floods,  that  show 

Her  beauteous  form  reflected  clear  below, 

While  airs  impregnated  with  incense  play 

Around  her,  fanning  light  her  streamers  gay,  — 

So  thou,  with  sails  how  swift!  hast  reached  the  shore, 

*'  Where  tempests  never  beat,  nor  billows  roar;  "  ' 

And  thy  loved  consort  on  the  dangerous  tide 

Of  life  long  since  has  anchored  by  thy  side. 

But  me,  scarce  hoping  to  attain  that  rest, 

Always  from  port  withheld,  always  distressed,  — 

Me  howling  blasts  drive  devious,  tempest-tossed, 

Sails  ripped,  seams  opening  wide,  and  compass  lost. 

And  day  by  day  some  current's  thwarting  force 

Sets  me  more  distant  from  a  prosperous  course. 

Yet,  O,  the  thought,  that  thou  art  safe,  and  he  I 

That  thought  is  joy,  arrive  what  may  to  me. 

My  boast  is  not  that  I  deduce  my  birth 

From  loins  enthroned  and  rulers  of  the  earth; 

But  higher  far  my  proud  pretensions  rise  — 

The  son  of  parents  passed  into  the  skies. 

And  now,  farewell  —  Time  unrevoked  has  run  ' 

His  wonted  course ;  yet  what  I  wished  is  done. 

By  contemplation's  help,  not  sought  in  vain, 

I  seem  t'  have  lived  my  childhood  o'er  again. 

To  have  renewed  the  joys  that  once  were  mine, 

Without  the  sin  of  violating  thine; 

1  Oaitli. 


298  WILLIAM  COWPER.  Chap.  XVIII 

And,  while  the  wings  of  fancy  still  are  free, 
And  I  can  view  this  mimic  show  of  thee. 
Time  has  but  half  succeeded  in  his  theft  — 
Thyself  removed,  thy  power  to  soothe  me  left. 


237 •   Mercy  to  Animals. 

I  would  not  enter  on  my  list  of  friends 

(Though  graced  with  polished  manners  and  fine  sense, 

Yet  wanting  sensibility)  the  man 

Who  needlessly  sets  foot  upon  a  worm. 

An  inadvertent  step  may  crush  the  snail 

That  crawls  at  evening  in  the  public  path ; 

But  he  that  has  humanity,  forewarned. 

Will  tread  aside,  and  let  the  reptile  live. 

The  creeping  vermin,  loathsome  to  the  sight, 

And  charged,  perhaps,  with  venom,  that  intrudes, 

A  visitor  unwelcome  into  scenes 

Sacred  to  neatness  and  repose,  the  alcove, 

The  chamber,  or  refectory,  may  die : 

A  necessary  act  incurs  no  blame. 

Not  so  when,  held  within  their  proper  bounds, 

And  guiltless  of  offence,  they  range  the  air. 

Or  take  their  pastime  in  the  spacious  field; 

There  they  are  privileged;  and  he  that  hunts 

Or  harms  them  there,  is  guilty  of  a  wrong, 

Disturbs  the  economy  of  Nature's  realm, 

Who,  when  she  formed,  designed  them  an  abode. 

The  sum  is  this  :  If  man's  convenience,  health. 

Or  safety  interfere,  his  rights  and  claims 

Are  paramount,  and  must  extinguish  theirs. 

Else  they  are  all  —  the  meanest  things  that  are  — 

As  free  to  live,  and  to  enjoy  that  life, 

As  God  was  free  to  form  them  at  the  first. 

Who  in  His  sovereign  wisdom  made  them  all. 

Ye,  therefore,  who  love  mercy,  teach  your  sons 

To  love  it  too. 


23S»   Pleasures  of  a  Winter  Evening. 

Now  stir  the  fire,  and  close  the  shutters  fast, 
Let  fall  the  curtains,  wheel  the  sofa  round. 
And,  while  the  bubbling  and  loud-hissing  urn 
Throws  up  a  steamy  column,  and  the  cups, 
That  cheer  but  not  inebriate,  wait  on  each, 
So  let  us  welcome  peaceful  evening  in, 
Not  such  his  evening  who,  with  shining  face. 


.\.D.  1731-1800.  WILLIAM   CO WFEB,  '  299 

Sweats  in  the  crowded  theatre,  and,  squeezed 

And  bored  with  elbow-points  through  both  his  sides, 

Outscolds  the  ranting  actor  on  the  stage ; 

Nor  his,  who  patient  stands  till  his  feet  throb, 

And  his  head  thumps,  to  feed  upon  the  breath 

Of  patriots,  bursting  with  heroic  rage, 

Or  placemen,  all  tranquillity  and  smiles. 

This  folio  of  four  pages,  happy  work! 

Which  not  e'en  critics  criticise;  that  holds 

Inquisitive  attention,  while  I  read. 

Fast  bound  in  chains  of  silence,  which  the  fair. 

Though  eloquent  themselves,  yet  fear  to  break; 

What  is  it,  but  a  map  of  busy  life. 

Its  fluctuations,  and  its  vast  concerns  ? 

Here  runs  the  mountainous  and  craggy  ridge. 

That  tempts  Ambition.     On  the  summit  see 

The  seals  of  office  glitter  in  his  eyes; 

He  climbs,  he  pants,  he  grasps  them  !     At  his  heels. 

Close  at  his  heels,  a  demagogue  ascends, 

And  with  a  dexterous  }erk  soon  twists  him  down. 

And  wins  them,  but  to  lose  them  in  his  turn. 

Here  rills  of  oily  eloquence,  in  soft 

Meanders,  lubricate  the  coui'se  they  take ; 

The  modest  speaker  is  ashamed  and  grieved 

To  engross  a  moment's  notice ;  and  yet  begs. 

Begs  a  propitious  ear  for  his  poor  thoughts, 

However  trivial  all  that  he  conceives. 

Sweet  bashfulness !  it  claims  at  least  this  praise 

The  dearth  of  information  and  good  sense, 

That  it  foretells  us,  always  comes  to  pass. 

Cataracts  of  declamation  thunder  here ; 

There  forests  of  no  meaning  spread  the  page. 

In  which  all  comprehension  wanders  lost; 

While  fields  of  pleasantry  amuse  us  there 

With  merry  descants  on  a  nation's  woes, 

The  rest  appears  a  wilderness  of  strange 

But  gay  confusion  ;  roses  for  the  cheeks. 

And  lilies  for  the  brows  of  faded  age. 

Teeth  for  the  toothless,  ringlets  for  the  bald. 

Heaven,  earth,  and  ocean,  plundered  of  their  sweete, 

Nectareous  essences,  Olympian  dews. 

Sermons,  and  city  feasts,  and  favorite  airs, 

Ethereal  journeys,  submarine  exploits, 

And  Katterfelto,  with  his  hair  on  end 

At  his  own  wonders,  wondering  for  his  bread. 

'Tis  pleasant,  through  the  loopholes  of  retreat, 
To  peep  at  such  a  world ;  to  see  the  stir 


800  WILLIAM  COWPER.  Chap.  XVIIL 

Of  the  great  Babel,  and  not  feel  the  crowd ; 
To  hear  the  roar  she  sends  through  all  her  gates 
At  a  safe  distance,  where  the  dying  sound 
Falls  a  soft  murmur  on  th'  uninjured  ear. 
Thus  sitting,  and  surveying  thus  at  ease 
The  globe  and  its  concerns,  I  seem  advanced 
To  some  secure  and  more  than  mortal  height. 
That  liberates  and  exempts  me  from  them  all. 


From  the  "Tirocinium." 

230»   The  Play-Place  of  Early  Days* 

Be  it  a  weakness,  it  deserves  some  praise, 

We  love  the  play-place  of  our  early  days; 

The  scene  is  touching,  and  the  heart  is  stone, 

That  feels  not  at  that  sight,  and  feels  at  none. 

The  wall  on  which  we  tried  our  graving  skill, 

The  very  name  we  carved  subsisting  still ; 

The  bench  on  which  we  sat  while  deep  employed, 

Though  mangled,  hacked,  and  hewed,  not  yet  destroyed ; 

The  little  ones,  unbuttoned,  glowing  hot. 

Playing  our  games,  and  on  the  very  spot; 

As  happy  as  we  once,  to  kneel  and  draw 

The  chalky  ring,  and  knuckle  down  at  taw 

To  pitch  the  ball  into  the  grounded  hat. 

Or  drive  it  devious  with  a  dexterous  pat 

The  pleasing  spectacle  at  once  excites 

Such  recollection  of  our  own  delights, 

That,  viewing  it,  we  seem  almost  t'  obtain 

Our  innocent  sweet  simple  years  again. 


240,   The  Diverting  History  of  John  Gilpin. 

John  Gilpin  was  a  citizen 

Of  credit  and  renown, 
A  train-band  Captain  eke  was  he 

Of  famous  London  town. 

John  Gilpin's  spouse  said  to  her  dear  — 

Though  wedded  we  have  been 
These  twice  ten  tedious  years,  yet  we 

No  holiday  have  seen. 

To-morrow  is  our  wedding-day, 

And  we  will  then  repair 
Unto  the  Bell  at  Edmonton 

All  in  a  chaise  and  pair. 


A.  D.  1731-1800.  WILLIAM   COWPEB.  301 

My  sister  and  my  sister's  child, 

Myself,  and  children  three. 
Will  fill  the  chaise ;  so  you  must  ride 

On  horseback  after  we. 

He  soon  replied  —  I  do  admire 

Of  womankind  but  one, 
And  you  are  she,  my  dearest  dear, 

Therefore  it  shall  be  done. 

I  am  a  linen-draper  bold, 

As  all  the  world  doth  know, 
And  my  good  friend  the  calender 

Will  lend  his  horse  to  go. 

Quoth  Mistress  Gilpin  —  That's  well  said; 

And,  for  that  wine  is  dear, 
We  will  be  furnished  with  our  own, 

Which  is  both  bright  and  clear. 

John  Gilpin  kissed  his  loving  wife; 

O'erjoyed  was  he  to  find 
That,  though  on  pleasure  she  was  bent, 

She  had  a  frugal  mind. 

The  morning  came,  the  chaise  was  brought. 

But  yet  was  not  allowed 
To  drive  up  to  the  door,  lest  all 

Should  say  that  she  was  proud. 

So  three  doors  off  the  chaise  was  stayed. 

Where  they  did  all  get  in  ; 
Six  precious  souls,  and  all  agog 

To  dash  through  thick  and  thin. 

Smack  went  the  whip,  round  went  the  wheels. 

Were  never  folk  so  glad, 
The  stones  did  rattle  underneath, 

As  if  Cheapside  were  mad. 

John  Gilpin,  nt  his  horse's  side. 

Seized  fast  the  flowing  mane. 
And  up  he  got,  in  haste  to  ride, 

But  soon  came  down  again  : 

For  saddle-tree  scarce  reached  had  he. 

His  journey  to  begin, 
When,  turning  round  his  head,  he  saw 

Three  customers  come  in. 


302  WILLIAM  COWPER.  Chap.  XVIII. 

So  down  he  came ;  for  loss  of  time, 

Although  it  grieved  him  sore, 
Yet  loss  of  pence,  full  well  he  knew, 

Would  trouble  him  much  more. 

'Twas  long  before  the  customers 

Were  suited  to  their  mind, 
When  Betty,  screaming,  came  down  stairs  — 

"  The  wine  is  left  behind ! " 

Good  lack!  quoth  he  — yet  bring  it  me. 

My  leathern  belt  likewise. 
In  which  I  bear  my  trusty  sword, 
When  I  do  exercise. 

Now  Mistress  Gilpin  (careful  soul!) 

Had  two  stone  bottles  found, 
To  hold  the  liquor  that  she  loved, 

And  keep  it  safe  and  sound. 

Each  bottle  had  a  curling  ear. 

Through  which  the  belt  he  drew, 
And  hung  a  bottle  on  each  side, 

To  make  his  balance  true. 

Then,  over  all,  that  he  might  be 

Equipped  from  top  to  toe. 
His  long  red  cloak,  well  brushed  and  neftty 

He  manfully  did  throw. 

Now  see  him  mounted  once  again 

Upon  his  nimble  steed, 
Full  slowly  pacing  o'er  the  stones, 

With  caution  and  good  heed. 

But  finding  soon  a  smoother  road 

Beneath  his  well-shod  feet, 
The  snorting  beast  began  to  trot, 

Which  galled  him  in  his  seat. 

So,  Fair  and  softly,  John  he  cried, 

But  John  he  cried  in  vain; 
That  trot  became  a  gallop  soon, 

In  spite  of  curb  and  rein. 

So,  stooping  down,  as  needs  he  must 

Who  cannot  sit  upright, 
He  grasped  the  mane  with  both  his  hands» 

And  eke  with  all  his  might. 


A.  D.  1731-1800.  WILLIAM  COWPER,  303 

His  horse,  who  never  in  that  sort 

Had  handled  been  before, 
What  thing  upon  his  back  had  got 

Did  wonder  more  and  more. 

Away  went  Gilpin,  neck  or  nought, 

Away  went  hat  and  wig; 
He  little  dreamt,  when  he  set  out, 

Of  running  such  a  rig. 

The  wind  did  blow,  the  cloak  did  fly, 

Like  streamer  long  and  gay. 
Till,  loop  and  button  failing  both. 

At  last  it  flew  away. 

Then  might  all  people  well  discern 

The  bottles  he  had  slung; 
A  bottle  swinging  at  each  side, 

As  hath  been  said  or  sung. 

The  dogs  did  bark,  the  children  screarr.ed, 

Up  flew  the  windows  all ; 
And  every  soul  cried  out  —  Well  done! 

As  loud  as  he  could  bawl. 

Away  went  Gilpin  —  who  but  he.? 

His  fame  soon  spread  around,  — 
He  carries  weight!  he  rides  a  race! 

'Tis  for  a  thousand  pound ! 

And,  still,  as  fast  as  he  drew  near, 

'Twas  wonderful  to  view, 
How  in  a  trice  the  turnpike  men 

Their  gates  wide  open  threw! 

And  now,  as  he  went  bowing  down 

His  reeking  head  full  low, 
The  bottles  twain,  behind  his  back, 

Were  shattered  at  a  blow. 

Down  ran  the  wine  into  the  road. 

Most  piteous  to  be  seen, 
Which  made  his  horse's  flanks  to  smok-s 

As  they  had  basted  been. 

But  still  he  seemed  to  carry  weight, 

With  leathern  girdle  braced ; 
For  all  might  see  the  bottle-necks 

Still  dangling  at  his  waist. 


304  WILLIAM   COWPER,  Chap.  XVIII. 

Thus  all  through  merry  Islington, 

These  gambols  he  did  play, 
And  till  he  came  unto  the  Wash 

Of  Edmonton  so  gay. 

And  there  he  threw  the  Wash  about 

On  both  sides  of  the  way, 
Just  like  unto  a  trundling  mop, 

Or  a  wild  goose  at  play. 

At  Edmonton,  his  loving  wife 

From  balcony  espied 
Her  tender  husband,  wondering  much 

To  see  how  he  did  ride. 

Stop,  stop,  John  Gilpin  !  —  Here's  the  house  — 

They  all  at  once  did  cry ; 
The  dinner  waits,  and  we  are  tired  : 

Said  Gilpin  —  So  am  II 

But  yet  his  horse  was  not  a  whit 

Inclined  to  tarry  there; 
For  why? —  his  owner  had  a  house 

Full  ten  miles  off,  at  Ware. 

So,  like  an  arrow  swift  he  flew. 

Shot  by  an  archer  strong; 
So  did  he  fly  —  which  brings  me  to 

The  middle  of  my  song. 

Away  went  Gilpin  out  of  breath. 

And  sore  against  his  will, 
Till  at  his  friend's  the  calender's 

His  horse  at  last  stood  still. 

The  calender,  amazed  to  see 

His  neighbor  in  such  trim, 
Laid  down  his  pipe,  flew  to  the  gate. 

And  thus  accosted  him  :  — 

What  news?  what  news?  your  tidings  tell; 

Tell  me  you  must  and  shall  — 
Say  why  bareheaded  you  are  come. 

Or  why  you  come  at  all? 

Now  Gilpin  had  a  pleasant  wit, 

And  loved  a  timely  joke, 
And  thus  unto  the  calender 

In  merry  guise  he  spoke  :  — 


A.  D.  1731-1800.  WILLIAM  COWPER,  305 

I  came  because  jour  horse  would  come ; 

And,  if  I  well  forebode, 
My  hat  and  wig  will  soon  be  here ; 

They  are  upon  the  road. 

The  calender,  right  glad  to  find 

His  friend  in  merry  pin, 
Returned  him  not  a  single  word, 

But  to  the  house  went  in. 

Whence  straight  he  came  with  hat  and  wig; 

A  wig  that  flowed  behind, 
A  hat  not  much  the  worse  for  wear, 

Each  comely  in  its  kind. 

He  held  them  up,  and  in  his  turn 

Thus  showed  his  ready  wit,  — 
My  head  is  twice  as  big  as  yours, 

They  therefore  needs  must  fit. 

But  let  me  scrape  the  dirt  away, 

That  hangs  upon  your  face  ; 
And  stop  and  eat,  for  well  you  may 

Be  in  a  hungry  case. 

Said  John  —  It  is  my  wedding-day, 

And  all  the  world  would  stare, 
If  wife  should  dine  at  Edmonton, 

And  I  should  dine  at  Ware. 

So,  turning  to  his  horse,  he  said  — 

I  am  in  haste  to  dine ; 
'Twas  for  your  pleasure  you  came  here. 

You  shall  go  back  for  mine. 

Ah!  luckless  speech,  and  bootless  boast! 

For  which  he  paid  full  dear; 
For,  while  he  spake,  a  braying  ass 

Did  sing  most  loud  and  clear; 

Whereat  his  horse  did  snort,  as  he 

Had  heard  a  lion  roar, 
And  galloped  off  with  all  his  might. 

As  he  had  done  before. 

Away  went  Gilpin,  and  away 

Went  Gilpin's  hat  and  wig; 
He  lost  them  sooner  than  at  first. 

For  why?  they  were  too  big. 
20 


306  WILLIAM  COWFER.  Chap.  XVIIL 

Now  Mistress  Gilpin,  when  she  saw 

Her  husband  posting  down 
Into  the  country  far  away, 

She  pulled  out  half-a-crown  \ 

And  thus  unto  the  youth  she  said, 

That  drove  them  to  the  Bell  — 
This  shall  be  yours  when  you  bring  back 

My  husband  safe  and  well. 

The  youth  -did  ride,  and  soon  did  meet 

John  coming  back  amain  ; 
Whom  in  a  trice  he  tried  to  stop, 

By  catching  at  his  rein ; 

But  not  performing  what  he  meant, 

And  gladly  would  have  done. 
The  frighted  steed  he  frighted  more, 

And  made  him  faster  run. 

Away  went  Gilpin,  and  away 

Went  postboy  at  his  heels, 
The  postboy's  horse  right  glad  to  miss 

The  lumb'ring  of  the  wheels. 

Six  gentlemen  upon  the  road, 

Thus  seeing  Gilpin  fly, 
With  postboy  scamp'ring  in  the  rear,  , 

They  raised  the  hue  and  cry :  — 

Stop  thief!  stop  thief!  —  a  highwayman  I 

Not  one  of  them  was  mute ; 
And  all  and  each  that  passed  that  way 

Did  join  in  the  pursuit. 

And  now  the  turnpike  gates  again 

Flew  open  in  short  space ; 
The  toll-men  thinking,  as  before, 

That  Gilpin  rode  a  race. 

And  so  he  did,  and  won  it  too, 

For  he  got  first  to  town ; 
Nor  stopped  till  where  he  first  got  up 

He  did  again  get  down. 

Now  let  us  sing  —  Long  live  the  king. 

And  Gilpin,  long  live  he; 
And,  when  he  next  doth  ride  abroad. 

May  I  be  there  to  see  I 


A.  D.  1731-1802.  EBASMUS  DARWIN,  307 

241,  William  Falconer,    i 730-1 769.    (Manual,  p.  359.) 

From  "The  Shipwreck." 

In  vain  the  cords  and  axes  were  prepared, 

For  now  th'  audacious  seas  insult  the  yard ; 

High  o'er  the  ship  they  throw  a  horrid  shade, 

And  o'er  her  burst  in  terrible  cascade. 

Uplifted  on  the  surge,  to  heaven  she  flies. 

Her  shattered  top  half-buried  in  the  skies. 

Then  headlong,  plunging,  thunders  on  the  ground, 

Earth  groans!  air  trembles!  and  the  deeps  resound! 

Her  giant  bulk  the  dread  concussion  feels. 

And  quivering  with  the  wound,  in  torment  reels; 

So  reels,  convulsed  with  agonizing  throes, 

The  bleeding  bull  beneath  the  murd'rer's  blows. — 

Again  she  plunges!  hark!  a  second  shock 

Tears  her  strong  bottom  on  the  marble  rock ! 

Down  on  the  vale  of  death,  with  dismal  cries, 

The  fated  victims,  shuddering,  roll  their  eyes 

In  wild  despair;  while  yet  another  stroke. 

With  deep  convulsion,  rends  the  solid  oak; 

Till  like  the  mine,  in  whose  infernal  cell 

The  lurking  demons  of  destruction  dwell. 

At  length  asunder  torn,  her  frame  divides. 

And  crashing  spreads  in  ruin  o'er  the  tides. 


Erasmus  Darwin.     1731-1802.     (Manual,  p.  360.) 

From  "The  Botanic  Garden." 

242,     Steel. 

Hail,  adamantine  Steel!  magnetic  Lord ! 
King  of  the  prow,  the  ploughshare,  and  the  sword  1 
True  to  the  pole,  by  thee  the  pilot  guides 
His  steady  helm  amid  the  struggling  tides; 
Braves  with  broad  sail  th'  immeasurable  sea, 
Cleaves  the  dark  air,  and  asks  no  star  but  thee.  — 
By  thee  the  ploughshare  rends  the  matted  plain, 
Inhumes  in  level  rows  the  living  grain; 
Intrusive  forests  quit  the  cultured  ground. 
And  Ceres  laughs,  with  golden  fillets  crowned.  — 
O'er  restless  realms,  when  scowling  Discord  flings 
Her  snakes,  and  loud  the  din  of  battle  rings; 
Expiring  strength  and  vanquished  courage  feel 
Thy  arm  resistless,  adamantine  Steel  I 


308  JAMES  MACFHEBSON.  Chap.  XVIII. 

James  Macpherson.     i  738-1 796.     (Manual,  p.  361.) 
24:3,   The  Songs  of  Selma. 

Star  of  descending  night !  fair  is  thy  light  in  the  west !  thou  liftest 
thy  unshorn  head  from  thy  cloud ;  thy  steps  are  stately  on  thy  hilU 
What  dost  thou  behold  in  the  plain?  The  stormy  winds  are  laid. 
The  murmur  of  the  torrent  comes  from  afar.  Roaring  waves  climb 
the  distant  rock.  The  flies  of  evening  are  on  their  feeble  wings  ;  the 
hum  of  their  course  is  on  the  field.  What  dost  thou  behold,  fair 
light.''  But  thou  dost  smile  and  depart.  The  waves  come  with  joy 
around  thee :  they  bathe  thy  lovely  hair.  Farewell,  thou  silent 
beam  !  let  the  light  of  Ossian's  soul  arise  ! 

And  it  does  arise  in  its  strength  I  I  behold  my  departed  friends. 
Their  gathering  is  on  Lora,  as  in  the  days  of  other  years.  Fingal 
comes  like  a  watery  column  of  mist;  his  heroes  are  around.  And  see 
the  bards  of  song,  gray-haired  Ullin  !  stately  Ryno  !  Alpin  with  the 
tuneful  voice!  the  soft  complaint  of  Minona!  How  are  ye  changed, 
my  friends,  since  the  days  of  Selma's  feast,  when  we  contended,  like 
gales  of  spring,  as  they  fly  along  the  hill,  and  bend  by  turns  the 
feebly  whistling  gra«;s ! 

Minona  came  forth  in  her  beauty,  with  downcast  look  and  tearful 
eye.  Her  hair  flew  slowly  on  the  blast,  that  rushed  unfrequent  from 
the  hill.  The  souls  of  the  heroes  were  sad  when  she  raised  the  tune- 
ful voice.  Often  had  they  seen  the  grave  of  Salgar,  the  dark  dwell- 
ing of  white-bosomed  Colma.  Colma  left  alone  on  the  hill,  with 
all  her  voice  of  song!  Salgar  promised  to  come;  but  the  night  de- 
scended around.  Hear  the  voice  of  Colma,  when  she  sat  alone  on 
the  hill! 

Colma.  —  It  is  night;  I  am  alone,  forlorn  on  the  hill  of  storms. 
The  wind  is  heard  in  the  mountain.  The  torrent  pours  down  the 
rock.  No  hut  receives  me  from  the  rain ;  forlorn  on  the  hill  of 
winds ! 

Rise,  moon,  from  behind  thy  clouds !  Stars  of  the  night,  arise ! 
..ead  me,  some  light,  to  the  place,  where  my  love  rests  from  the  chase 
alone!  his  bow  near  him,  unstrung!  his  dogs  panting  around  him. 
But  here  I  must  sit  alone  by  the  rock  of  the  mossy  stream.  The 
stream  and  the  wind  roar  aloud.  I  hear  not  the  voice  of  my  love. 
Why  delays  my  Salgar,  why  the  chief  of  the  hill,  his  promise.''  Here 
is  the  rock,  and  here  the  tree!  here  is  the  roaring  stream!  Thou 
didst  promise  with  night  to  be  here.  Ah,  whither  is  my  Salgar 
gone.''  With  thee  I  would  fly  from  my  father;  with  thee  from  my 
brother  of  pride.  Our  race  have  long  been  foes;  we  are  no  foes, 
O  Salgar! 

Cease  a  little  while,  O  wind!  stream,  be  thou  silent  a  while!  let 
my  voice  be  heard  around-  Let  my  wanderer  hear  me !  Salgar,  it 
is  Colma  who  calls.      Here  is  the  tree,  and  the  rock.      Salgar,  my 


A.  D.  1738-1796.        JAMES  MACPEERSON.  309 

love!  I  am  here.  Why  delayest  thou  thy  coming.?  Lo !  the  calm 
moon  comes  forth.  The  flood  is  bright  in  the  vale.  The  rocks  are 
gray  on  the  steep.  I  see  him  not  on  the  brow.  His  dogs  come  not 
before  him,  with  tidings  of  his  near  approach.  Here  I  must  sit 
alone ! 

Who  lie  on  the  heath  beside  me.^*  Are  they  my  love  and  my 
brother.?  Speak  to  me,  O  my  friends  !  To  Colma  they  give  no  reply. 
Speak  to  me ;  I  am  alone !  My  soul  is  tormented  with  fears !  Ah, 
they  are  dead!  Their  swords  are  red  from  the  fight.  O  my  brother, 
my  brother,  why  hast  thou  slain  my  Salgar.?  why,  O  Salgar,  hast 
thou  slain  my  brother.?  Dear  were  ye  both  to  me !  What  shall  I  say 
in  your  praise.?  Thou  wert  fair  on  the  hill  among  thousands!  he 
was  terrible  in  fight.  Speak  to  me:  hear  my  voice;  hear  me,  sons 
of  my  love.  They  are  silent,  silent  forever!  Cold,  cold  are  their 
breasts  of  clay !  O,  from  the  rock  on  the  hill ;  from  the  top  of  the 
windy  steep,  speak,  ye  ghosts  of  the  dead!  speak,  I  will  not  be  afraid! 
Whither  are  ye  gone  to  rest.?  In  what  cave  of  the  hill  shall  I  find 
the  departed.?  No  feeble  voice  is  on  the  gale ;  no  answer  half-drowned 
in  the  storm ! 

I  sit  in  my  grief!  I  wait  for  morning  in  my  tears  !  Rear  the  tomb, 
ye  friends  of  the  dead !  Close  it  not  till  Colma  come.  My  life  flies 
away  like  a  dream;  why  should  I  stay  behind.?  Here  shall  I  rest 
with  my  friends,  by  the  sounding  rock.  When  night  comes  on  the 
hill;  when  the  loud  winds  arise;  my  ghost  shall  stand  in  the  blast, 
and  mourn  the  death  of  my  friends.  The  hunter  shall  hear  from  his 
booth.  He  shall  fear  but  love  my  voice!  For  sweet  shall  my  voice 
be  for  my  friends;  pleasant  were  her  friends  to  Colma  ! 

Such  was  thy  song,  Minona,  softly  blushing  daughter  of  Torman. 
Our  tears  descended  for  Colma,  and  our  souls  were  sad !  Ullin  came 
with  his  harp :  he  gave  the  song  of  Alpin.  The  voice  of  Alpin  was 
pleasant;  the  soul  of  Ryno  was  a  beam  of  fire !  But  they  rested  in 
the  narrow  house;  their  voice  had  ceased  in  Selma.  Ullin  had  re- 
turned, one  day,  from  the  chase,  before  the  heroes  fell.  He  heard 
their  strife  on  the  hill;  their  song  was  soft  but  sad!  They  mourned 
the  fall  of  Morar,  first  of  mortal  men !  His  soul  was  like  the  soul  of 
Fingal ;  his  sword  like  the  sword  of  Oscar.  But  he  fell,  and  his 
father  mourned ;  his  sister's  eyes  were  full  of  tears.  Minona's  eyes 
were  full  of  tears,  the  sister  of  car-borne  Morar.  She  retired  from 
the  song  of  Ullin,  like  the  moon  in  the  west,  when  she  foresees  the 
shower,  and  hides  her  fair  head  in  a  cloud.  I  touched  the  harp  with 
Ullin  ;  the  song  of  mourning  rose  ! 

Ryno.  — The  wind  and  the  rain  are  past;  calm  is  the  noon  of  day. 
The  clouds  are  divided  in  heaven.  Over  the  green  hills  flies  the  in- 
constant sun.  Red  through  the  stony  vale  comes  down  the  stream  of 
the  hill.  Sweet  are  thy  murmurs,  O  stream!  but  more  sweet  is  the 
voice  I  hear.  It  is  the  voice  of  Alpin,  the  son  of  song.  Why  alone 
on  the  silent  hill.?  Why  complainest  thou,  as  a  blast  in  the  wood,  as 
A  wave  on  \he  lonely  shore? 


310  THOMAS   CHATTERTON.  Chap.  XVllI. 

Alpin.  —  My  tears,  O  Rjno,  are  for  the  dead ;  mj  voice  for  those 
that  have  passed  away.     Tall  thou  art  on  the  hill ;  fair  among  the 
sons  of  the  vale.     But  thou  shalt  fall  like  Morar;  the  mourner  shall 
sit  on  the  tomb.     The  hills  shall  know  thee  no  more;  thy  bow  shal 
lie  in  thy  hall,  unstrung! 

Thou  wert  swift,  O  Morar!  as  a  roe  on  the  desert;  terrible  as  a 
meteor  of  fire.  Thy  wrath  was  as  the  storm.  Thy  sword  in  battle, 
as  lightning  in  the  field.  Thy  voice  was  a  stream  after  rain ;  like 
thunder  on  distant  hills.  Many  fell  by  thy  arm  ;  they  were  consumed 
in  the  flames  of  thy  wrath.  But  when  thou  didst  return  from  war, 
how  peaceful  was  thy  brow !  Thy  face  was  like  the  sun  after  rain ; 
like  the  moon  in  the  silence  of  night;  calm  as  the  breast  of  the  lake 
when  the  loud  wind  is  laid. 

Narrow  is  thy  dwelling  now!  dark  the  place  of  thine  abode!  With 
three  steps  I  compass  thy  grave,  O  thou  who  wast  so  great  before. 
Four  stones,  with  their  heads  of  moss,  are  the  only  memorial  of  thee. 
A  tree  with  scarce  a  leaf,  long  grass  which  whistles  in  the  wind,  mark 
to  the  hunter's  eye  the  grave  of  the  mighty  Morar.  Morar,  thou  art 
low  indeed.  Thou  hast  no  mother  to  mourn  thee;  no  maid  with  her 
tears  of  love.  Dead  is  she  that  brought  thee  forth.  Fallen  is  the 
daughter  of  Morglan. 

Who  on  his  staff  is  this?  who  is  this  whose  head  is  white  with  age? 
whose  eyes  are  red  with  tears?  who  quakes  at  every  step?  It  is  thy 
father,  O  Morar !  the  father  of  no  son  but  thee.  He  heard  of  thy  fame 
in  war;  he  heard  of  foes  dispersed.  He  heard  of  Morar's  renown; 
why  did  he  not  hear  of  his  wound?  Weep,  thou  father  of  Morar, 
weep,  but  thy  son  heareth  thee  not.  Deep  is  the  sleep  of  the  dead; 
low  their  pillow  of  dust.  No  more  shall  he  hear  thy  voice;  no  more 
awake  at  thy  call.  When  shall  it  be  morn  in  the  grave,  to  bid  the 
slumberer  awake?  Farewell,  thou  bravest  of  men !  thou  conqueror 
in  the  field !  but  the  field  shall  see  thee  no  more ;  nor  the  dark  wood 
be  lightened  with  the  splendor  of  thy  steel.  Thou  hast  left  no  son. 
The  song  shall  preserve  thy  name.  Future  times  shall  he,ar  of  thee; 
they  shall  hear  of  the  fallen  Morar! 


Thomas  Chatterton.     i 752-1 770.     (Manual,  p.  362.) 

24:4:  •   Resignation, 

O  God,  whose  thunder  shakes  the  sky, 

Whose  eye  this  atom  globe  surveys; 
To  thee,  my  only  rock,  I  fly. 

Thy  mercy  in  thy  justice  praise. 

The  mystic  mazes  of  thy  will, 

The  shadows  of  celestial  light, 
Are  past  the  power  of  human  skill  — 

But  what  th'  Eternal  acts  is  right. 


/LD.  1754-1832.  OEOROE   CRABBE.  311 

O,  teach  me  in  the  trying  hour, 

When  anguish  swells  the  dewy  tear, 
To  still  my  sorrows,  own  thy  power, 

Thy  goodness  love,  thy  justice  fear. 

If  in  this  bosom  aught  but  thee, 

Encroaching  sought  a  boundless  sway, 

Omniscience  could  the  danger  see. 
And  Mercy  look  the  cause  away. 

Then  why,  my  soul,  dost  thou  complain, 

Why  drooping  seek  the  dark  recess? 
Shake  off  the  melancholy  chain, 

For  God  created  all  to  bless. 

But,  ah  !  my  breast  is  human  still ; 

The  rising  sigh,  the  falling  tear. 
My  languid  vitals'  feeble  rill. 

The  sickness  of  my  soul  declare. 

But  yet,  with  fortitude  resigned, 

I'll  thank  th'  inflicter  of  the  blow. 
Forbid  the  sigh,  compose  my  mind. 

Nor  let  the  gush  of  misery  flow. 

The  gloomy  mantle  of  the  night. 

Which  on  my  sinking  spirit  steals. 
Will  vanish  at  the  morning  light, 

Which  God,  my  East,  my  Sun,  reveals. 


George  Crabbe.     1754-1833.     (Manual,  p.  364.) 

From  **  The  Borough." 

24S,   The  Dying  Sailor. 

Yes  !  there  are  real  mourners.  —  I  have  seen 
A  fair,  sad  girl,  mild,  suffering,  and  serene; 
Attention  (through  the  day)  her  duties  claimed. 
And  to  be  useful  as  resigned  she  aimed  : 
Neatly  she  dressed,  nor  vainly  seemed  t'  expect 
Pity  for  grief,  or  pardon  for  neglect; 
But,  when  her  wearied  parents  sunk  to  sleep. 
She  sought  her  place  to  meditate  and  weep  : 
Then  to  her  mind  was  all  the  past  displayed, 
That  faithful  memory  brings  to  sorrow's  aid  ; 
For  then  she  thought  on  one  regretted  youth, 
Her  tender  trust,  and  his  unquestioned  truth: 


812  GEORGE   CRABBE.  Chap.  XIX. 

In  every  place  she  wandered,  where  they'd  been, 

And  sadlj-sacred  held  the  parting  scene. 

Where  last  for  sea  he  took  his  leave  —  that  place 

With  double  interest  would  she  nightly  trace;. 

For  long  the  courtship  was,  and  he  would  say, 

Each  time  he  sailed,  —  *'  This  once,  and  then  the  day     * 

Yet  prudence  tarried ;  but,  when  last  he  went, 

He  drew  from  pitying  love  a  full  consent. 

Happy  he  sailed,  and  great  the  care  she  took, 
That  he  should  softly  sleep,  and  smartly  look; 
White  was  his  better  linen,  and  his  check 
Was  made  more  trim  than  any  on  the  deck; 
And  every  comfort  men  at  sea  can  know. 
Was  hers  to  buy,  to  make,  and  to  bestow : 
For  he  to  Greenland  sailed,  and  much  she  told, 
How  he  should  guard  against  the  climate's  cold, 
Yet  saw  not  danger;  dangers  he'd  withstood. 
Nor  could  she  trace  the  fever  in  his  blood  : 
His  messmates  smiled  at  flushings  on  his  cheek, 
And  he  too  smiled,  but  seldom  would  he  speak; 
For  now  he  found  the  danger,  felt  the  pain. 
With  grievous  symptoms  he  could  not  explain ; 
Hope  was  awakened,  as  for  home  he  sailed. 
But  quickly  sank,  and  never  more  prevailed. 

He  called  his  friend,  and  prefaced  with  a  sigh 
A  lover  message —  "  Tkofnas,  I  must  die  : 
Would  I  could  see  my  Sally,  and  could  rest 
My  throbbing  temples  on  her  faithful  breast, 
And  gazing,  go  !  —  if  not,  this  trifle  take. 
And  say,  till  death  I  wore  it  for  her  sake ; 
Yes!  I  must  die  —  blow  on,  sweet  breeze,  blow  on! 
Give  me  one  look,  before  my  life  be  gone, 
O  I  give  me  that,  and  let  me  not  despair, 
One  last  fond  look  —  and  now  repeat  the  prayer." 

He  had  his  wish,  had  more;  I  will  not  paint 
The  lovers'  meeting :  she  beheld  him  faint,  — 
With  tender  fears,  she  took  a  nearer  view, 
Her  terrors  doubling  as  her  hopes  withdrew; 
He  tried  to  smile,  and,  half  succeeding,  said, 
*'  Yes  !  I  must  die ;  "  and  hope  forever  fled. 

Still  long  she  nursed  him ;  tender  thoughts,  meantime; 
Were  interchanged,  and  hopes  and  views  sublime. 
To  her  he  came  to  die,  and  every  day 
She  took  some  portion  of  the  dread  away : 
With  him  she  prayed,  to  him  his  Bible  read, 


A.  I).  1754-1832.  GEORGE   CBABBE,  313 

Soothed  the  faint  heart,  and  held  the  aching  head; 
She  came  with  smiles  the  hour  of  pain  to  cheer; 
Apart,  she  sighed;  alone,  she  shed  the  tear; 
Then,  as  if  breaking  from  a  cioud,  she  gave 
Fresh  light,  and  gilt  the  prospect  of  the  grave. 

One  day  he  lighter  seemed,  and  they  forgot 
The  care,  the  dread,  the  anguish  of  their  lot; 
They  spoke  with  cheerfulness,  and  seemed  to  think, 
Yet  said  not  so  —  "  Perhaps  he  will  not  sink ;  " 
A  sudden  brightness  in  his  look  appeared, 
A  sudden  vigor  in  his  voice  was  heard ;  — 
She  had  been  reading  in  the  book  of  prayer, 
And  led  him  forth,  and  placed  him  in  his  chair; 
Lively  he  seemed,  and  spoke  of  all  he  knew, 
The  friendly  many,  and  the  favorite  few; 
Nor  one  that  day  did  he  to  mind  recall, 
But  she  has  treasured,  and  she  loves  them  all; 
When  in  her  way  she  meets  them,  they  appear 
Peculiar  people  —  death  has  made  them  dear. 
He  named  his  friend,  but  then  his  hand  she  prest, 
And  fondly  whispered,  "  Thou  must  go  to  rest!  " 
"I  go,"  he  said;  but,  as  he  spoke,  she  found 
His  hand  more  cold,  and  fluttering  was  the  sound! 
Then  gazed  affrightened ;  but  she  caught  a  last, 
A  dying  look  of  love,  and  all  was  past! 

She  placed  a  decent  stone  his  grave  above. 
Neatly  engraved  —  an  oflfering  of  her  love; 
For  that  she  wrought,  for  that  forsook  her  bed, 
Awake  alike  to  duty  and  the  dead ; 

She  wouid  have  grieved,  had  friends  presumed  to  spare 
The  least  assistance  —  'twas  her  proper  care. 

Here  will  she  come,  and  on  the  grave  will  sit. 
Folding  her  arms,  in  long  abstracted  fit; 
But,  if  observer  pass,  will  take  her  round. 
And  careless  seem,  for  she  would  not  be  found; 
Then  go  again,  and  thus  her  hour  employ. 
While  visions  please  her,  and  while  woes  destroy. 

Forbear,  sweet  maid  !  nor  be  by  fancy  led, 
To  hold  mysterious  converse  with  the  dead ; 
For  sure  at  length  thy  thoughts,  thy  spirit's  paia, 
In  this  sad  conflict,  will  disturb  thy  brain; 
All  have  their  tasks  and  trials;  thine  are  hard, 
But  short  the  time,  and  glorious  the  reward; 
Thy  patient  spirit  to  thy  duties  give. 
Regard  the  dead,  but,  to  the  living,  live. 


314  OEOROE   CRABBE.  Chap.  XVlil 

From  "The  Parish  Register." 

24:0*   An  English  Peasant. 

To  pomp  and  pageantry  in  nought  allied. 

A  noble  peasant,  Isaac  Ashford,  died. 

Noble  he  was,  contemning  all  things  mean. 

His  truth  unquestioned,  and  his  soul  serene  ; 

Of  no  man's  presence  Isaac  felt  afraid, 

At  no  man's  question  Isaac  looked  dismayed  : 

Shame  knew  him  not,  he  dreaded  no  disgrace  : 

Truth,  simple  truth,  was  written  in  his  face ; 

Yet  while  the  serious  thought  his  soul  approved. 

Cheerful  he  seemed  and  gentleness  he  loved : 

To  bliss  domestic  he  his  heart  resigned, 

And,  with  the  firmest,  had  the  fondest  mind : 

Were  others  joyful,  he  looked  smiling  on, 

And  gave  allowance  where  he  needed  none  : 

Good  he  refused  with  future  ill  to  buy, 

Nor  knew  a  joy  that  caused  reflection's  sigh  ; 

A  friend  to  virtue,  his  unclouded  breast 

No  envy  stung,  no  jealousy  distressed 

(Bane  of  the  poor!  it  wounds  their  weaker  mind^ 

To  miss  one  favor  which  their  neighbors  find)  : 

Yet  far  was  he  from  stoic  pride  removed ; 

He  felt  humanely,  and  he  warmly  loved  : 

I  marked  his  action  when  his  infant  died, 

And  his  old  neighbor  for  oflfence  was  tried ; 

The  still  tears,  stealing  down  that  furrowed  cheek, 

Spoke  pity  plainer  than  the  tongue  can  speak. 

If  pride  were  his,  'twas  not  their  vulgar  pride. 

Who,  in  their  base  contempt,  the  great  deride: 

Nor  pride  in  learning,  though  my  clerk  agreed. 

If  fate  should  call  him,  Ashford  might  succeed; 

Nor  pride  in  rustic  skill,  although  we  knew 

None  his  superior,  and  his  equals  few : 

But  if  that  spirit  in  his  &oul  had  place, 

It  was  the  jealous  pride  that  shuns  disgrace  ; 

A  pride  in  honest  fame,  by  virtue  gained. 

In  sturdy  boys  to  virtuous  labors  trained ; 

Pride  in  the  Power  that  guards  his  country's  coast. 

And  all  that  Englishmen  enjoy  and  boast; 

Pride,  in  a  life  that  slander's  tongue  defied, 

In  fact  a  noble  passion,  misnamed  pride. 

I  feel  his  absence  in  the  hours  of  prayer, 

And  view  his  seat,  and  sigh  for  Isaac  there; 

I  see  no  more  those  white  locks,  thinly  spread 


A..  D.  1759-1796.  ROBERT  BURNS.  315 

Round  the  bald  polish  of  that  honored  head; 
Nor  more  that  awful  glance  on  playful  wight, 
Compelled  to  kneel  and  tremble  at  the  sight. 
To  fold  his  fingers  all  in  dread  the  while, 
Till  Master  Ashford  softened  to  a  smile; 
No  more  that  meek  and  suppliant  look  in  prayer, 
Nor  the  pure  faith  (to  give  it  forth),  are  there; 
But  he  is  blessed,  and  I  lament  no  more, 
A  wise  good  man,  contented  to  be  poor. 


Robert   Burns.    1759-1796.    (Manual,  p.  366.) 
24:7,    To  Mary  in  Heaven. 

Thou  lingering  star,  with  lessening  ray, 

That  lov'st  to  greet  the  early  morn. 
Again  thou  usher'st  in  the  day 

My  Mary  from  my  soul  was  torn. 
O  Mary !  dear  departed  shade  ! 

Where  is  thy  place  of  blissful  rest? 
Seest  thou  thy  lover  lowly  laid.? 

Hear'st  thou  the  groans  that  rend  his  breast. 

That  sacred  hour  can  I  forget.? 

Can  I  forget  the  hallowed  grove. 
Where  by  the  winding  Ayr  we  met, 

To  live  one  day  of  parting  love? 
Eternity  will  not  efface 

Those  records  dear  of  transports  past; 
Thy  image  at  our  last  embrace ! 

Ah,  little  thought  we  'twas  our  last  I 

Ayr  gurgling  kissed  his  pebbled  shore, 

O'erhung  with  wild  woods  thickening  green : 
The  fragrant  birch,  and  hawthorn  hoar. 

Twined  amorous  round  the  raptured  scene. 
The  flowers  sprang  wanton  to  be  prest,  • 
'^;'  The  birds  sang  love  on  every  spray, 

\  Till  too,  too  soon  the  glowing  west 

O  Proclaimed  the  speed  of  winged  day. 

Still  o'er  these  scenes  my  memory  wakes, 

And  fondly  broods  with  miser  care ; 
Time  but  the  impression  stronger  makes, 

As  streams  their  channels  deeper  wear. 
My  Mary,  dear  departed  shade ! 

Where  is  thy  place  of  blissful  rest? 
Seest  thou  thy  lover  lowly  laid  ? 

Hear'st  thou  the  groans  that  rend  his  breast? 


316  ROBERT  BURNS.  Chap.  XVIII. 


24:8»    John  Anderson. 

John  Anderson  my  jo,  John, 

When  we  were  first  acquent, 
Your  locks  were  like  the  raven, 

Your  bonnie  brow  was  brent; 
But  now  your  brow  is  held,  John, 

Your  locks  are  like  the  snaw; 
But  blessings  on  your  frosty  pow, 

John  Anderson  my  jo. 

John  Anderson  my  jo,  John, 

We  clamb  the  hill  thegither; 
And  mony  a  canty  day,  John, 

We've  had  wi'  ane  anither. 
But  we  maun  totter  down,  John, 

But  hand  in  hand  we'll  go  : 
And  sleep  thegither  at  the  foot, 

John  Anderson  my  jo. 


240*    Bannockburn. 

Robert  Bruce's  Address  to  hia  Army. 

Scots,  wha  hae  wi'  Wallace  bled ; 
Scots,  wham  Bruce  has  aften  led ; 
Welcome  to  your  gory  bed, 
Or  to  glorious  Victoria ! 

Now's  the  day  and  now's  the  hour  — 
See  the  front  o'  battle  lour; 
See  approach  proud  Edward's  power- 
Edward  !  chains  and  slaverie ! 

Wha  will  be  a  traitor  knave  ? 
Wha  can  fill  a  coward's  grave  ? 
Wha  sae  base  as  be  a  slave? 
Traitor !  coward !  turn  and  flee  I 

Wha  for  Scotland's  king  and  law 
Freedom's  sword  will  strongly  draw  I 
Freeman  stand  or  freeman  fa', 
Caledonian  !  on  wi'  me ! 

By  oppression's  woes  and  pains  I 
By  our  sons  in  servile  chains ! 
We  will  drain  our  dearest  veins, 
But  they  shall  be  —  shall  be  free ! 


A.  D.  1759-1796.  ROBERT  BURN 3.  317 

Lay  the  proud  usurpers  low ! 
Tyrants  fall  in  every  foe  ! 
Liberty's  in  every  blow ! 
Forward  !  let  us  do  or  die  I 


230*   The  Banks  o'  Doon. 

Ye  flowery  banks  o'  bonnie  Doon, 

How  can  ye  bloom  sae  fair! 
How  can  ye  chant,  ye  little  birds, 

And  I  sae  fu'  o'  care ! 

Thou'll  break  my  heart,  thou  bonnie  bird, 

That  sings  upon  the  bough ; 
Thou  minds't  me  o'  the  happy  days 

When  my  fause  luve  was  true. 

Thou'lt  break  my  heart,  thou  bonnie  bird, 

That  sings  beside  thy  mate; 
For  sae  I  sat,  and  sae  I  sang, 

And  wistna'  o'  my  fate. 

Aft  hae  I  roved  by  bonnie  Doon, 

To  see  the  woodbine  twine, 
And  ilka  bird  sang  o'  its  love. 

And  sae  did  I  o'  mine. 

VVi'  lightsome  heart  I  pu'd  a  rose, 

Frae  aff  its  thorny  tree ; 
And  my  fause  luver  staw  the  rose, 

But  left  the  thorn  wi'  me. 


2S1,    The  Cotter's  Saturday  Night. 

November  chill  blaws  loud  wi'  angry  sugh ; 

The  shortening  winter-day  is  near  a  close; 
The  miry  beasts  retreating  frae  '  the  pleugh; 

The  blackening  trains  o'  craws  to  their  repose; 
The  toil-worn  cotter  frae  his  labor  goes, 

This  night  his  weekly  moil  ^  is  at  an  end, 
Collects  his  spades,  his  mattocks,  and  his  hoes. 

Hoping  the  morn  in  ease  and  rest  to  spend. 
And  weary,  o'er  the  moor,  his  course  does  hameward  bend. 

At  length  his  lonely  cot  appears  in  view, 
Beneath  the  shelter  of  an  aged  tree; 

1  From  8  Lubor. 


318  RORERT  BURNS.  Chap.  XVIII. 

Th'  expectant  wee'*  things,  toddlin,^  stacher^  through 
To  meet  their  dad,  wi'  flicterin^  noise  an'  glee. 

His  wee  bit  ingle,'  blinkin  ^  bonnily. 
His  clean  hearth-stane,  his  thriftie  wifie's  smile, 

The  lisping  infant  prattling  on  his  knee, 
Does  a'  ^  his  weary  carking  ^°  cares  beguile. 
An'  makes  him  quite  forget  his  labor  and  his  toil. 

Beljve  '*  the  elder  bairns  come  drappin  in, 

At  service  out,  amang  the  farmers  roun' ; 
Some  ca'  *^  the  pleugh,  some  herd,  some  tentie  '^  rin 

A  cannie  *"*  errand  to  a  neebor  town  : 
Their  eldest  hope,  their  Jenny,  woman  grown,  ' 

In  youthfu'  bloom,  love  sparkling  in  her  e'e. 
Comes  hame,  perhaps,  to  show  a  braw  '^  new  gown, 

Or  deposit  her  sair-won  *^  penny-fee,'' 
To  help  her  parents  dear,  if  they  in  hardship  be. 

Wi'  joy  unfeigned,  brothers  and  sisters  meet. 

An'  each  for  other's  weelfare  kindly  spiers;  '^ 
The  social  hours,  swift-winged,  unnoticed  fleet; 

Each  tells  the  uncos  '^  that  he  sees  or  hears ; 
The  parents,  partial,  eye  their  hopeful  years: 

Anticipation  forward  points  the  view  : 
The  mother,  wi'  her  needle  an'  htr  shears. 

Gars  ^°  auld  claes  look  amaist  as  weel's  the  new; 
The  father  mixes  a'  with  admonition  due. 

Their  master's  and  their  mistress's  command, 

The  younkers  a'  are  warned  to  obey ; 
An'  mind  their  labors  wi'  an  eydent^*  hand. 

An'  ne'er,  though  out  o'  sight,  to  jauk  or  play  : 
"  An',  O  !  be  sure  to  fear  the  Lord  alway  ! 

An'  mind  your  duty,  duly,  morn  an'  night! 
Lest  in  temptation's  path  ye  gang  astray. 

Implore  His  counsel  and  assisting  might: 
They  never  sought  in  vain  that  sought  the  Lord  aright  I  '* 

But  hark!  a  rap  comes  gently  to  the  door; 

Jenny,  wha  kens  the  meaning  o'  the  same, 
Tells  how  a  neebor  lad  cam'  o'  the  moor. 

To  do  some  errands,  and  convoy  her  hame. 
The  wily  mother  sees  the  conscious  flame 

Sparkle  in  Jenny's  e'e,  and  flush  her  cheek; 
With  heart-struck  anxious  care,  inquires  his  name, 

While  Jenny  haffiins  ^^  is  afraid  to  speak; 
Weel  pleased  the  mother  hears  it's  nae  wild  worthless  rake. 

I  Little.      *  Totteriiig  in  their  walk.    5  Stagger.     6  Fluttering.      <  Fire.     8  Shining  at  intervals.      *  A\i 
h)  Consuming.       n  By  and  by.       12  Drive.       1- Cautious.       H  Kindly,  dexterous,      li  Fine,  handsonia 
M  Sorely  won.         W  Wajjes.        18  Asks.        19  News.         ao  Makes.       21  Diligent.        22  Partly. 


A.  D.  1759-1796.  ROBERT  BURNS.  3lS 

Wl'  kindly  welcome  Jennj'  brings  him  ben  ;  ^ 

A  strappan  ^  youth,  he  taks  the  mother's  eye ; 
Blythe  Jenny  sees  the  visit's  no  ill-ta'en  ; 

The  father  cracks  ^*  of  horses,  pleughs,  and  kye."'"'' 
The  youngster's  artless  heart  o'erflows  wi'  joy, 

But  blate  ^'  an'  laithfu',^**  scarce  can  weel  behave : 
The  mother,  wi'  a  woman's  wiles,  can  spy 

What  maks  the  youth  sae  bashfu'  an'  sae  grave, 
Weel  pleased  to  think  her  bairn's  respected  like  the  lave. 


» 


O,  happy  love!  where  love  like  this  is  found! 

O  heartfelt  raptures!  bliss  bej'ond  compare! 
I've  pac6d  much  this  weary,  mortal  round. 

And  sage  experience  bids  me  this  declare,  — 
"  If  Heaven  a  draught  of  heavenly  pleasure  spare, 

One  cordial  in  this  melancholy  vale, 
'Tis  when  a  youthful,  loving,  modest  pair 

In  other's  arms  breathe  out  the  tender  tale. 
Beneath  the  milk-white  thorn  that  scents  the  evening  gale." 

Is  there,  in  human  form,  that  bears  a  heart,  — 

A  wretch,  a  villain,  lost  to  love  and  truth, 
That  can,  with  studied,  sly,  insnaring  art, 

Betray  sweet  Jenny's  unsuspecting  youth  ? 
Curse  on  his  perjured  arts!  dissembling  smooth! 

Are  honor,  virtue,  conscience,  all  exiled? 
Is  there  no  pity,  no  relenting  ruth,^^ 

Points  to  the  parents  fondling  o'er  their  child? 
Then  paints  the  ruined  maid,  and  their  distraction  wild? 

But  now  the  supper  crowns  their  simple  board! 

The  healsome  parritch,^^  chief  o'  Scotia's  food  : 
The  soupe^^  their  only  hawkie^^  does  afford. 

That  'yont^^  the  hallan  ^*  sn'igly  chows  her  cood  : 
The  dame  brings  forth,  in  complimental  mood. 

To  grace  the  lad,  her  weel-hained^^  kebbuck,"  fell,^* 
An'  aft  he's  pressed,  an'  aft  he  ca's  it  good; 

The  frugal  wifie,  garrulous,  will  tell, 
How  'twas  a  towmond  ^^  auld,'**'  sin  *'  lint  was  i'  the  bell.*- 

The  cheerfu'  supper  done,  wi'  serious  face, 

They  round  the  ingle  form  a  circle  wide ; 
The  sire  turns  o'er,  wi'  patriarchal  grace, 

The  big  Ha'-Bible,"*^  ance  his  father's  pride; 

B  Into  the  parlor.  a*  Tall  and  handsome.  25  Converses.  26  KIne,  cows.  27  Bashlui 

28  Reluctant.  29  The  rest,  the  others.         30  Mercy,  kind  feeling.  31  Oatmeal  pudding. 

82  Sauce,  milk.  33  A  pet  name  for  a  cow.  34  Beyond.  35  A  partition  wall  in  a  cottaRQ 

36  Carefully  preserved.         37  A  cheese.         38  Biting  to  the  taste.         30  Twelve  months.         40  Old 

*l  Since.        42  Flax  was  in  blossom.        43  The  gicat  Bible  kept  in  the  hall. 


320  ROBERT  BURNS.  Chap.  XVIII 

His  bonnet  reverently  is  laid  aside, 

His  Ijart'*'*  haffets '*^  wearin'  thin  an'  bare; 
Those  strains  that  once  did  sweet  in  Zion  glide. 

He  wales  ^^  a  portion  with  judicious  care ; 
And  "Let  us  worship  God,"  he  says,  wi'  solemn  air. 

They  chant  their  artless,  notes  in  simple  guise; 

They  tune  their  hearts,  hy  far  the  noblest  aim ; 
Perhaps  Dundee's '*^  wild  warbling  measures  rise. 

Or  plaintive  Martyrs,^'  worthy  of  the  name; 
Or  noble  Elgin  '^''  beets  the  heavenward  flame, 

The  sweetest  far  of  Scotia's  holy  lays  ; 
Compared  with  these,  Italian  trills  are  tame; 

The  tickled  ears  no  heartfelt  raptures  raise ; 
Nae  unison  hae  they  with  our  Creator's  praise. 

The  priest-like  father  reads  the  sacred  page, 

How  Abram  was  the  friend  of  God  on  high ; 
Or,  Moses  bade  eternal  warfare  wage 

With  Amalek's  ungracious  progeny; 
Or,  how  the  Royal  Bard  ^'^  did  groaning  lie 

Beneath  the  stroke  of  Heaven's  avenging  ire; 
Or,  Job's  pathetic  plaint  and  wailing  cry; 

Or,  rapt  Isaiah's  wild  seraphic  fire; 
Oi-  other  holy  seers  that  tune  the  sacred  lyre. 

Perhaps  the  Christian  volume  is  the  theme, 

How  guiltless  blood  for  guilty  man  was  shed; 
How  He,  who  bore  in  heaven  the  second  name, 

Had  not  on  earth  whereon  to  lay  his  head : 
How  His  first  followers  and  servants  sped. 

The  precepts  sage  they  wrote  to  many  a  land : 
How  he"*^  who  lone  in  Patmos^"  banished. 

Saw  in  the  sun  a  mighty  angel  stand,  [command. 

And  heard  great  Babylon's  doom  pronounced  by  Heaven's 

Then  kneeling  down  to  Heaven's  Eternal  King, 

The  saint,  the  father,  and  the  husband  prays; 
Hope  "springs  exulting  on  triumphant  wing," 

That  thus  they  all  shall  meet  in  future  days; 
There  ever  bask  in  uncreated  raj'S, 

No  more  to  sigh,  or  shed  the  bitter  tear, 
Together  hymning  their  Creator's  praise, 

In  such  society,  yet  still  more  dear, 
While  circling  time  moves  round  in  an  eternal  sphere. 

M(iiay.    *J  The  temples,  the  sides  of  the  head.     40  Chooses.     47  The  names  of  Scottish  psalm-tunes 

4S  David.  49  Saint  John. 

SO  All  island  in  the  J  rchipelago,  where  John  is  supposed  to  have  written  the  book  of  Revelation. 


A.  D.  1759-1796.  ROBERT  BURNS,  321 

Compared  with  this,  how  poor  Religion's  pride, 

In  all  the  pomp  of  method  and  of  art, 
When  men  display  to  congregations  wide 

Devotion's  every  grace,  except  the  heart! 
The  Power,  incensed,  the  pageant  will  desert, 

The  pompous  strain,  the  sacerdotal  stole  ;^' 
But  haply,  in  some  cottage  far  apart, 

May  hear,  well  pleased,  the  language  of  the  soul; 
And  in  His  book  of  life  the  inmates  poor  enroll. 

Then  homeward  all  take  off  their  several  way; 

The  youngling  cottagers  retire  to  rest ; 
The  parent  pair  their  secret  homage  pay, 

And  proffer  up  to  Heaven  the  warm  request 
That  He,  who  stills  the  raven's  clamorous  nest, 

And  decks  the  lily  fair  in  flowery  pride, 
Would,  in  the  way  His  wisdom  sees  the  best, 

For  them  and  for  their  little  ones  provide ; 
But,  chiefly,  in  their  hearts  with  grace  divine  preside. 

From  scenes  like  these  old  Scotia's  grandeur  springs. 

That  makes  her  loved  at  home,  revered  abroad  ; 
Princes  and  lords  are  but  the  breath  of  kings, 

"An  honest  man's  the  noblest  work  of  God;  " 
And  certes,^'^  in  fair  virtue's  heavenly  road. 

The  cottage  leaves  the  palace  far  behind  : 
What  is  a  lordling's  pomp?  a  cumbrous  load. 

Disguising  oft  the  wretch  of  human-kind. 
Studied  in  arts  of  hell,  in  wickedness  refined  1 

O  Scotia  !  my  dear,  my  native  soil ! 

For  whom  my  warmest  wish  to  Heaven  is  sent  I 
Long  may  thy  hardy  sons  of  rustic  toil 

Be  blessed  with  health,  and  peace,  and  sweet  content  I 
And,  O !  may  Heaven  their  simple  lives  prevent 

From  luxury's  contagion,  weak  and  vile ! 
Then,  however  crowns  and  coronets  be  rent, 

A  virtuous  populace  may  rise  the  while, 
And  stand,  a  wall  of  fire,  around  their  much-loved  isle. 

O  Thou !  who  poured  the  patriotic  tide 

That  streamed  through  Wallace's  undaunted  heart. 
Who  dared  to,  nobly,  stem  tyrannic  pride, 

Or  nobly  die,  the  second  glorious  part 
(The  patriot's  God  peculiarly  Thou  art. 

His  friend,  inspirer,  guardian,  and  reward), 
O  never,  never,  Scotia's  realm  desert : 

But  still  the  patriot,  and  the  patriot  bard, 
In  bright  succession  raise,  her  ornament  and  guard  I 

61  PiiCbtlj-  vestment.  21  ^  Certainly. 


322  JOHN  WOLCOTT.  Chap.  XVlll 

John  Wolcott.     1738-1819.     (Manual,  p.  370.) 

2S2»   The  Razor  Seller. 

A.  fellow  in  a  market  town, 

Most  musical,  cried  razors  up  and  down, 

And  offered  twelve  for  eighteen  pence; 
V^'hich  certainly  seemed  wondrous  cheap. 
And  for  the  money  quite  a  heap. 

As  every  man  would  buy,  with  cash  and  sense. 

A  country  bumpkin  the  great  offer  heard  : 

Poor  Hodge,  who  suffered  by  a  broad  black  beard, 

That  seemed  a  shoe-brush  stuck  beneath  his  nose  : 
With  cheerfulness  the  eighteen  pence  he  paid, 
And  proudly  to  himself,  in  whispers,  said, 
"  This  rascal  stole  the  razors,  I  suppose. 

"  No  matter  if  the  fellow  de  a  knave, 
Provided  that  the  razors  s/iave  ; 

It  certainly  will  be  a  monstrous  prize." 
So  home  the  clown,  with  his  good  fortune,  went, 
Smiling  in  heart  and  soul,  content. 

And  quickly  soaped  himself  to  ears  and  eyes. 

Being  well  lathered  from  a  dish  or  tub, 
Hodge  now  began  with  grinning  pain  to  grub, 

Just  like  a  hedger  cutting  furze  : 
'Twas  a  vile  razor!  —  then  the  rest  he  tried  — 
All  were  impostors.     "Ah!"  Hodge  sighed, 

"  I  wish  my  eighteen  pence  within  my  purse." 

Hodge  sought  the  fellow  —  found  him  —  and  begun  : 
"  P'rhaps,  Master  Razor-rogue,  to  you  'tis  fun. 

That  people  flay  themselves  out  of  their  lives  : 
You  rascal !  for  an  hour  have  I  been  grubbing. 
Giving  my  crying  whiskers  here  a  scrubbing. 

With  razors  just  like  oyster  knives. 
Sirrah!  I  tell  you,  you're  a  knave. 
To  cry  up  razors  that  can't  shave.^ 


*'  Friend,"  quoth  the  razor-man,  "  I'm  not  a  knave  : 

As  for  the  razors  you  have  bought, 

Upon  my  soul  I  never  thought 
That  they  would  shave.'^ 
*'  Not  think  they'd  shave  !"  quoth  Hodge,  with  wondering  eyes, 

And  voice  not  much  unlike  an  Indian  yell ; 
"  What  were  they  made  for  then,  you  dog.?"  he  cries  : 

"  Made  1 "  quoth  the  fellow,  with  a  smile,  —  "  to  sell." 


A..  D.  1751-1816.  RICHARD  BRINSLEY  SHERIDAN.  323 

Richard  Brinsley  Sheridan.     1751-1816.     (Manual, 

P-37I-) 
From  "The  School  for  Scandal." 

253.   The  Old  Husband  and  the  Young  Wife. 

Sir  Peter  Teazle.  But  here  comes  mv  helpmate !  She  appears  ir 
great  good  humor.  How  happy  I  should  be  if  I  could  tease  her  into 
loving  me,  though  but  a  little! 

Enter  Lady  Teazle. 

Lady  Teaz.  Lud !  Sir  Peter,  I  hope  you  haven't  been  quarrelling 
with  Maria.?     It  is  not  using  me  well  to  be  ill  humored  when  I  am 

not  bj'. 

Sir  Pet.  Ah,  Lady  Teazle,  you  might  have  the  power  to  make  me 
good  humored  at  all  times. 

Lady  Teaz.  I  am  sure  I  wish  I  had;  for  I  want  you  to  be  in  a 
charming  sweet  temper  at  this  moment.  Do  be  good  humored  now, 
and  let  me  have  two  hundred  pounds,  will  you  } 

Sir  Pet.  Two  hundred  pounds;  what,  a'n't  I  to  be  in  a  good  hu- 
mor without  paying  for  it!  But  speak  to  me  thus,  and  i'  faith  there's 
nothing  I  could  refuse  you.  You  shall  have  it;  but  seal  me  a  bond 
for  the  repayment. 

Lady  Teaz.     O,  no  —  there  —  my  note  of  hand  will  do  as  well. 

\__Offering  her  hand. 

Sir  Pet.  And  you  shall  no  longer  reproach  me  with  not  giving 
you  an  independent  settlement.  I  mean  shortly  tci  surprise  you  :  but 
shall  we  always  live  thus,  hey.'' 

Lady  Teaz.  If  you  please.  I'm  sure  I  don't  care  how  soon  we 
leave  off  quarrelling,  provided  you'll  own  you  were  tired  first. 

6'/;'  Pet.  Well  —  then  let  our  future  contest  be,  who  shall  be 
most  obliging. 

Lady  Teaz.  I  assure  you,  Sir  Peter,  good  nature  becomes  you. 
You  look  now  as  you  did  before  we  were  married,  when  you  used  to 
walk  with  me  under  the  elms,  and  tell  me  stories  of  what  a  gallant 
you  were  in  3'our  youth,  and  chuck  me  under  the  chin,  jou  would; 
and  ask  me  if  I  thought  I  could  love  an  old  fellow,  who  would  deny 
me  nothing  —  didn't  yon  ? 

Sir  Pet.     Yes,  yes,  and  you  were  as  kind  and  attentive 

Lady  Teaz.  Ay,  so  I  was,  and  would  always  take  your  part,  when 
my  acquaintance  used  to  abuse  you,  and  turn  you  into  ridicule. 

Sir  Pet.     Indeed ! 

Lady  Teaz.     Ay,  and  when  my  cousin  Sophy  has  called  you  a  stiff, 
peevish  old  bachelor,  and  laughed  at  me  for  thinking  of  marrying 
one  who  might  be  my  father,  I  have  always  defended  you,  and  said, 
I  didn't  think  you  so  ugly  by  any  means. 
Sir  Pet.     Thank  you, 


324  BICHAIW   BRINSLEY  SHERIDAN.     Chap.  XVIII. 

Lady  Teaz.  And  I  dared  saj  you'd  make  a  very  good  sort  of  a 
husband. 

Sir  Pet.  And  you  prophesied  right;  and  we  shall  now  be  the  hap- 
piest couple 

Lady  Teaz.     And  never  differ  again  ? 

Sir  Pet.  No,  never !  —  though  at  the  same  time,  indeed,  my  deaf 
Lady  Teazle,  you  must  watch  yonx  temper  very  seriously ;  for  in  all 
our  little  quarrels,  my  dear,  if  you  recollect,  my  love,  you  always 
began  first. 

Lady  Teaz.  I  beg  your  pardon,  my  dear  Sir  Peter;  indeed,  you 
always  gave  the  provocation. 

Sir  Pet.  Now  see,  my  angel !  take  care  —  contradicting  isn't  the 
way  to  keep  friends. 

Lady  Teaz.     Then  don't  you  begin  it,  my  love  ! 

Sir  Pet.  There,  now!  you  —  you  are  going  on.  You  don't  per- 
ceive, my  love,  that  you  are  just  doing  the  very  thing  which  you  know 
always  makes  me  angry. 

Lady  Teaz.  Nay,  you  know  if  you  will  be  angry  without  any  rea- 
son, my  dear 

Sir  Pet.     There  !  now  you  want  to  quarrel  again. 

Lady  Teaz.     No,  I'm  sure  I  don't ;  but,  if  you  will  be  so  peevish 

Sir  Pet,     There  now!  who  begins  first.-* 

Lady  Teaz.  Why,  you,  to  be  sure.  I  said  nothing  —  but  there's 
no  bearing  your  temper. 

Sir  Pet.     No,  no,  madam ;  the  fault's  in  your  own  temper. 

Lady  Teaz.  Ay,  you  are  just  what  my  cousin  Sophy  said  you 
would  be. 

Sir  Pet.     Your  cousin  Sophy  is  a  forward,  impertinent  gypsy. 

Lady  Teaz.     You  are  a  great  bear,  I'm  sure,  to  abuse  my  relations. 

Sir  Pet.  Now  may  all  the  plagues  of  marriage  be  doubled  on  me, 
if  ever  I  try  to  be  friends  with  you  any  more ! 

Lady  Teaz.     So  much  the  better. 

Sir  Pet.  No,  no,  madam:  'tis  evident  you  never  cared  a  pin  for 
me,  and  I  was  a  madman  to  marry  you  —  a  pert,  rural  coquette,  that 
had  refused  half  the  honest  squires  in  the  neighborhood. 

Lady  Teaz.  And  I  am  sure  I  was  a  fool  to  marry  you  —  an  old 
dangling  bachelor,  who  was  single  at  fifty,  only  because  he  never 
could  meet  with  any  one  who  would  have  him. 

Sir  Pet.  Ay,  ay,  madam ;  but  vou  were  pleased  enough  to  listen 
to  me :  you  never  had  such  an  offer  before. 

Lady  Teaz.  No !  didn't  I  refuse  Sir  Tivy  Terrier,  who  everybody 
said  would  have  been  a  better  match.?  for  his  estate  is  just  as  good  as 
yours,  and  he  has  broke  his  neck  since  we  have  been  married. 

Sir  Pet.  I  have  done  with  you,  madam.  You  are  an  unfeeling, 
ungrateful  —  but  there's  an  end  of  everything.  I  believe  you  capable 
of  everything  that  is  bad.  Yes,  madam,  I  now  believe  the  reports 
relative  to  you  and  Charles,  madam.  Yes,  madam,  you  and  Charles 
are,  not  without  grounds 


A.  D.  1751-1816.  RICHARD  BRINSLEY  SHERIDAN.  32o 

L.ady  Teaz.  Take  care,  Sir  Peter!  you  had  better  not  insinuate 
any  such  thing!     I'll  not  be  suspected  without  cause,  I  promise  you. 

Sir  Pet.  Very  well,  madam  !  very  well !  A  separate  maintenance 
as  soon  as  yon  please.  Yes,  madam,  or  a  divorce !  I'll  make  an  ex- 
ample of  myself  for  the  benefit  of  all  old  bachelors.  Let  us  separate, 
madam. 

Lady  Teaz.  Agreed !  agreed !  And  now,  my  dear  Sir  Peter,  we 
arc  of  a  mind  once  more ;  we  may  be  the  happiest  couple,  and  never 
differ  again,  you  know;  ha!  ha!  ha!  Well,  you  are  going  to  be  in  a 
passion,  I  see,  and  I  shall  only  interrupt  you  —  so,  bye,  bye.'     \^Exit. 

Sir  Pet.  Plagues  and  tortures!  can't  I  make  her  angry  either! 
O,  I  am  the  most  miserable  fellow!  But  I'll  not  bear  her  presuming 
to  keep  her  temper :  no  !  she  may  break  my  heart,  but  she  shan't  keen 
her  temper.     {Exit. 


326  WALTER  SCOTT,  Chap.  XIX. 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

WALTER    SCOTT. 


1771-1832.     (Manual,  pp.  376-395.) 

From  "  The  Lay  of  the  Last  Minstrel." 

2S4»   Description  of  Melrose  Abbey. 

If  thou  wouldst  view  fair  Melrose  aright, 

Go  visit  it  by  the  pale  moonlight; 

For  the  gay  beams  of  lightsome  day 

Gild  but  to  flout  the  ruins  gray. 

When  the  broken  arches  are  black  in  night, 

And  each  shafted  oriel  glimmers  white ; 

When  the  cold  light's  uncertain  shower 

Streams  on  the  ruined  central  tower; 

When  butti-ess  and  buttress,  alternately, 

Seem  framed  of  ebon  and  ivory; 

When  silver  edges  the  imagery, 

And  the  scrolls  that  teach  thee  to  live  and  die; 

When  distant  Tweed  is  heard  to  rave, 

And  the  owlet  to  hoot  o'er  the  dead  man's  grave 

Then  go  —  but  go  alone  the  while  — 

Then  view  St.  David's  ruined  pile; 

And,  home  returning,  soothly  swear, 

Was  never  scene  so  sad  and  fair! 


2SS,   Love  of  Country. 

Breathes  there  a  man  with  soul  so  dead, 
Who  never  to  himself  hath  said. 

This  is  my  own,  my  native  land.'' 
Whose  heart  hath  ne'er  within  hiin  burned, 
As  home  his  footsteps  he  bath  turned 

From  wandering  on  a  foreign  strand? 
If  such  there  breathe,  go  mark  him  well ; 
For  him  no  minstrel  raptures  swell; 
High  though  his  titles,  proud  his  name. 
Boundless  his  wealth  as  wish  can  claim; 


A.  D.  1771-1832.  WALTER   SCOTT.  327 

Despite  those  titles,  power,  and  pelf, 

The  wretch,  concentred  all  in  self, 

Living,  shall  forfeit  fair  renown, 

And,  doubly  dying,  shall  go  down 

To  the  vile  dust,  from  whence  he  sprung, 

Unwept,  unhonored,  and  unsung, 

O  Caledonia!  stern  and  wild, 
Meet  nurse  for  a  poetic  child  ! 
Land  of  brown  heath  and  shaggy  wood. 
Land  of  the  mountain  and  the  flood. 
Land  of  my  sires!  what  mortal  hand 
Can  e'er  untie  the  filial  band 
That  knits  me  to  thy  rugged  strand? 
Still  as  I  view  each  well-known  scene, 
Think  what  is  now,  and  what  hath  been, 
Seems  as  to  me,  of  all  bereft. 
Sole  friends  thy  woods  and  streams  were  left; 
And  thus  I  love  them  better  still, 
Even  in  extremity  of  ill. 


From  "Marmion." 

2d6*   Pitt  and  Fox. 

To  mute  and  to  material  things 
New  life  revolving  summer  brings  : 
The  genial  call  dead  nature  hears, 
And  in  her  glory  reappears. 
But,  O  1  my  country's  wintry  state 
What  second  spring  shall  renovate? 
What  powerful  call  shall  bid  arise 
The  buried  warlike  and  the  wise ! 
The  mind  that  thought  for  Britain's  weal, 
The  hand  that  grasped  the  victor's  steel? 
The  vernal  sun  new  life  bestows, 
E'en  on  the  meanest  flower  that  blows; 
But  vainly,  vainly  may  he  shine, 
Where  glory  weeps  o'er  Nelson's  shrine. 
And  vainly  pierce  the  solemn  gloom 
That  shrouds,  O  Pitt,  thy  hallowed  tomb ! 
♦         **♦**♦ 

Iladst  thou  but  lived,  though  stripped  of  power, 
A  watchman  on  the  lonely  towcr. 
Thy  thrilling  trump  had  roused  the  land, 
When  fraud  and  danger  were  at  hand ; 
By  thee,  as  by  the  beacon-light. 
Our  pilots  had  kept  course  aright; 


828  WALTER  SCO'IT.  Chap.  XIX 

As  some  proud  column,  though  alone, 

Thy  strength  had  propped  the  tottering  throne. 

Now  is  the  stately  column  broke, 

The  beacon-light  is  quenched  in  smoke, 

The  trumpet's  silver  sound  is  still, 

The  warder  silent  on  the  hill ! 

O !  think  how  to  his  latest  day, 
When  Death,  just  hovering,  claimed  his  prey, 
With  Palinure's  unaltered  mood. 
Firm  at  his  dangerous  post  he  stood; 
Each  call  for  needful  rest  repelled, 
With  dying  hand  the  rudder  held, 
Till,  in  his  fall,  with  fateful  sway. 
The  steerage  of  the  helm  gave  way ; 
Then,  while  on  Britain's  thousand  plains, 
One  unpolluted  church  remains. 
Whose  peaceful  bells  ne'er  sent  around 
The  bloody  tocsin's  maddening  sound, 
But' still  upon  the  hallowed  day. 
Convoke  the  swains  to  praise  and  pray; 
While  faith  and  civil  peace  are  dear, 
Grace  this  cold  marble  with  a  tear,  — 
He  who  preserved  them  —  Pitt,  lies  here ! 

Nor  yet  suppress  the  generous  sigh. 
Because  his  rival  slumbers  nigh; 
Nor  be  thy  requiescat  dumb, 
Lest  it  be  said  o'er  Fox's  tomb,  — 
For  talents  mourn,  untimely  lost, 
When  best  employed  and  wanted  most; 
Mourn  genius  high  and  lore  profound, 
And  wit  that  loved  to  play,  not  wound ; 
And  all  the  reasoning  powers  divine. 
To  penetrate,  resolve,  combine; 
And  feelings  keen  and  fancy's  glow,  — 
They  sleep  with  him  who  sleeps  below; 
And,  if  thou  mourn'st  they  could  not  save 
From  error  him  who  owns  this  grave, 
Be  every  harsher  thought  suppressed. 
And  sacred  be  the  last  long  rest. 
Here,  where  the  end  of  earthly  things 
Lays  heroes,  patriots,  bards,  and  kings; 
Where  stiff  the  hand,  and  still  the  tongue, 
Of  those  who  fought,  and  spoke,  and  sung : 
Here,  where  the  fretted  aisles  prolong 
The  distant  notes  of  holy  song. 
As  if  some  angel  spoke  again, 


A.  D.  1771-1832  WALTER   SCOTT.  329 

All  peace  on  earth,  good  will  to  men ; 
If  ever  from  an  English  heart, 
O  !  here  let  prejudice  depart,. 
And  partial  feeling  cast  aside, 
Record,  that  Fox  a  Briton  died ! 
When  Europe  crouched  to  France's  joke, 
And  Austria  bent,  and  Prussia  broke. 
And  the  firm  Russian's  purpose  brave 
Was  bartered  by  a  timorous  slave ; 
Even  then  dishonor's  peace  he  spurned, 
The  sullied  olive-branch  returned, 
Stood  for  his  country's  glory  fast. 
And  nailed  her  colors  to  the  mast! 
Heaven,  to  reward  his  firmness,  gave 
A  portion  in  this  honored  grave; 
And  never  held  marble  in  its  trust. 
Of  two  such  wondrous  men  the  dust. 
With  more  than  mortal  powers  endowed, 
How  high  they  soared  above  the  crowd ! 
Theirs  was  no  common  party  race. 
Jostling  by  dark  intrigue  for  place; 
Like  fabled  gods,  their  mighty  war 
Shook  realms  and  nations  in  its  jar; 
Beneath  each  banner  proud  to  stand. 
Looked  up  the  noblest  of  the  land ; 
Till  through  the  British  world  were  known 
The  names  of  Pitt  and  Fox  alone. 


2tS7»   The  Parting  of  Douglas  and  Makmion. 

The  train  from  out  the  castle  drew. 
But  Marmion  stopped  to  bid  adieu  : 
"Though  something  I  might  plain,"  he  said, 
"Of  cold  respect  to  stranger  guest. 
Sent  hither  by  your  king's  behest, 
While  in  Tantallon's  towers  I  staid ; 
Part  we  in  friendship  from  your  land, 
And,  noble  earl,  receive  my  hand." 
But  Douglas  round  him  drew  his  cloak. 
Folded  his  arms,  and  thus  he  spoke  :  — 
"My  manors,  halls,  and  bowers  shall  still 
Be  open,  at  my  sovereign's  will. 
To  each  one  whom  he  lists,  howe'er 
Unmeet  to  be  the  owner's  peer. 
My  castles  are  my  king's  alone. 
From  turret  to  foundation  stone- — 
The  hand  of  Douglas  is  his  own. 


330  WALTER   SCOTT.  Chap.  XIX 

And  never  shall  in  friendly  grasp 
The  hand  of  such  as  Marmion  clasp." 

Burned  Marmion's  swarthy  cheek  like  lire, 
And  shook  his  very  frame  for  ii'e, 

And  —  "  This  to  nie  !  "  he  said,  — 
*'  An  'twere  not  for  thy  hoary  beard, 
Such  hand  as  Marmion's  had  not  spared 

To  cleave  the  Douglas'  head ! 
And,  first,  I  tell  thee,  haughty  peer, 
lie,  who  does  England's  message  here, 
Although  the  meanest  in  her  state. 
May  well,  proud  Angus,  be  thy  mate : 
And,  Douglas,  more  I  tell  thee  here, 

Even  in  thy  pitch  of  pride. 
Here,  in  thy  hold,  thy  vassals  near 
(Nay,  never  look  upon  your  lord. 
And  lay  your  hands  upon  your  sword),  — 

1  tell  thee,  thou'rt  defied! 
And  if  thou  said'st,  I  am  not  peer 
To  any  lord  in  Scotland  here. 
Lowland  or  Highland,  far  or  near, 

Lord  Angus,  thou  hast  lied  !  "  — 
On  the  earl's  cheek  the  flush  of  rage 
O'ercame  the  ashen  hue  of  age  : 
Fierce  he  broke  forth,  —  "  And  dar'st  thou  then 
To  beard  the  lion  in  his  den, 

The  Douglas  in  his  hall? 
And  hop'st  thou  hence  unscathed  to  go?  — 
No,  by  Saint  Bride  of  Bothwell,  no!  — 
Up  drawbridge,  grooms  —  what,  warder,  ho  ! 

Let  the  portcullis  fall." 
Lord  Marmion  turned, — well  was  his  need, - 
And  dashed  the  rowels  in  his  steed. 
Like  arrow  through  the  archway  sprung, 
The  ponderous  grate  behind  him  rung : 
To  pass  there  was  such  scanty  room. 
The  bars,  descending,  razed  his  plume. 

The  steed  along  the  drawbridge  flies, 

Just  as  it  trembled  on  the  rise ; 

Not  lighter  does  the  swallow  skim 

Along  the  smooth  lake's  level  brim  : 

And  when  Lord  Marmion  reached  his  band, 

He  halts,  and  turns  with  clinched  hand, 

ivnd  shout  of  loud  defiance  pours, 

And  shook  his  crauntlet  at  the  towers. 

"  Horse !  horse !  "  the  Douglas  cried,  "  and  chase   " 

Bat  soon  he  reined  his  fury's  [>rirc: 


A.  D.  1771-1832.  WALTER  SCOTT.  331 

*' A  royal  messenger  he  came, 
Though  most  unworthy  of  the  name,  — 
A  letter  forged !  Saint  Jude  to  speed  ! 
Did  ever  knight  so  foul  a  deed? 
At  first  in  heart  it  liked  me  ill. 
When  the  king  praised  his  clerkly  skill. 
Thanks  to  Saint  Bothan,  son  of  mine, 
Save  Gawain,  ne'er  could  pen  a  line  : 
So  swore  I,  and  I  swear  it  still, 
Let  my  boy-bishop  fret  his  fill.  — 
Saint  Mary  mend  my  fiery  mood ! 
Old  age  ne'er  cools  the  Douglas'  blood, 
I  thought  to  slay  him  where  he  stood. 
'Tis  pity  of  him,  too,"  he  cried : 
"  Bold  can  he  speak,  and  fairly  ride  : 
I  warrant  him  a  warrior  tried."  — 
With  this  his  mandate  he  recalls. 
And  slowly  seeks  his  castle's  halls. 


238,   The  Death  of  Marmion. 

With  that,  straight  up  the  hill  there  rode 

Two  horsemen  drenched  with  gore, 
And  in  their  arms,  a  helpless  load, 

A  wounded  knight  they  bore. 
His  hand  still  strained  the  broken  brand  : 
His  arms  were  smeared  with  blood  and  sand: 
Dragged  from  among  the  horses'  feet. 
With  dinted  shield,  and  helmet  beat, 
The  falcon-crest  and  plumage  gone. 
Can  that  be  haughty  Marmion!  .... 
Young  Blount  his  armor  did  unlace, 
And,  gazing  on  his  ghastly  face, 

Said  — "By  St.  George,  he's  gone! 
That  spear-wound  has  our  master  sped, 
And  see  the  deep  cut  on  his  head! 

Good  night  to  Marmion."  — 
'  ■  Unnurtured  Blount !  —  thy  brawling  cease  : 
He  opes  his  eyes,"  said  Eustace,  "  peace  I  " 

When,  doffed  his  casque,  he  felt  free  air, 

Around  'gan  Marmion  wildly  stare  :  — 

"  Where's  Harry  Blount!     Fitz-Eustace  where? 

Linger  ye  here,  ye  hearts  of  hare ! 

Redeem  my  pennon,  charge  again! 

Cry  —  '  Marmion  to  the  rescue  ! '  — Vain ! 

Last  of  my  race,  on  battle  plain 

That  shout  shall  ne'er  be  heard  again  !  — 


332  WALTER   SCOTT.  Chap.  XIX 

Yet  my  last  thought  is  England's  :  —  fly. 

To  Dacre  bear  my  signet-ring; 

Tell  him  his  squadrons  up  to  bring.  — 
Fitz-Eustace,  to  Lord  Surrey  hie  : 

Tunstall  lies  dea9  upon  the  field; 

His  life-blood  stains  the  spotless  shield  : 

Edmund  is  down  :  —  my  life  is  reft;  — 

The  Admiral  alone  is  left. 

Let  Stanley  charge  with  spur  of  fire,  — 

With  Chester  charge,  and  Lancashire, 

Full  upon  Scotland's  central  host, 

Or  victory  and  England's  lost.  — 

Must  I  bid  twice.?  —  hence,  varlets  !  fly  ! 

Leave  Marmion  here  alone  —  to  die."  — 

They  parted,  and  alone  he  lay ; 

Clare  drew  her  from  the  sight  away, 

Till  pain  wrung  forth  a  lowly  moan, 

And  half  he  murmured,  —  "Is  there  none, 
Of  all  iny  halls  have  nurst, 

Page,  squire,  or  groom,  one  cup  to  bring 

Of  blessed  water,  from  the  spring. 
To  <jlake  my  dying  thirst!  " 

O  Woman  !  in  our  hours  of  ease, 
Uncertain,  coy,  and  hard  to  please, 
And  variable  as  the  shade 
By  the  light  quivering  aspen  made; 
When  pain  and  anguish  wring  the  brow, 
A  ministering  angel  thou  !  — 
Scarce  were  the  piteous  accents  said. 
When,  with  the  Baron's  casque,  the  maid, 

To  the  nigh  streamlet  ran  : 
Forgot  were  hatred,  wrongs,  and  fears ; 
The  plaintive  voice  alone  she  hears, 

Sees  but  the  dying  man. 
She  stooped  her  by  the  runnel's  side. 

But  in  abhorrence  backward  drew; 
For,  oozing  from  the  mountain  wide. 
Where  raged  the  war,  a  dark  red  tide 

Was  curdling  in  the  streamlet  blue. 
Where  shall  she  turn.'*  —  behold  her  mark 

A  little  fountain-cell. 
Where  water,  clear  as  diamond-spark, 

In  a  stone  basin  fell. 
Above,  some  half-worn  letters  say, 

"  Jrink  .  tocarg  .  pilgrim  .  brink  .  anb  .  jjrag  « 

Jor  .  tlje  .  Iiiub  .  scrul  .  of .  ^gbil .  d^xtin  . 

Wilp  .  built  .  ll^is  .  cross  .  mib  .  fecU." 


(t^c 


<AAJ 


k.  D.  1771-1832.  WALTER  SCOTT,  333 

She  filled  the  helm,  and  back  she  hied, 
And  with  surprise  and  joy  espied 

A  Monk  supporting-  Marmion's  head ; 
A  pious  man,  whom  duty  brought 
To  dubious  verge  of  battle  fought, 

To  shrive  the  dying,  bless  the  dead. 
Deep  drank  Lord  Marmion  of  the  wave. 

If        *        *         *        *         * 
Wilh  fruitless  labor,  Clara  bound, 
And  strove  to  stanch,  the  gushing  wound  : 
The  Monk,  with  unavailing  cares, 
Exhausted  all  the  Church's  prayers; 
Ever,  he  said,  that,  close  and  near, 
A  lady's  voice  was  in  his  ear. 
And  that  the  priest  he  could  not  hear, 

For  that  she  ever  sung, 
"/«  the  lost  battle,  borne  down  by  the  flyings 
Where  mingles  -war's  rattle  -with  groans  of  the  dying  l'^ 

So  the  notes  rung; 
"  Avoid  thee,  Fiend !  — with  cruel  hand 
Shake  not  the  dying  sinner's  sand  !  — 
O  look,  my  son,  upon  yon  sign 
Of  the  Redeemer's  grace  divine ; 

O  think  on  faith  and  bliss !  — 
Dy  many  a  death-bed  I  have  been, 
And  many  a  sinner's  parting  seen, 

But  never  aught  like  this."  — 
The  war,  that  for  a  space  did  fail, 
Now  trebly  thundering  swelled  the  gale. 

And  —  Stanley  !  was  the  cry ;  — 
A  light  on  Marmion's  visage  spread, 

And  fired  his  glazing  eye  : 
With  dying  hand,  above  his  head 
He  shook  the  fragment  of  his  blade, 

And  shouted,  "Victory! 
Charge,  Chester,  charge!     On,  Stanley,  on  I** 
Were  the  last  words  of  Marmion. 


From  "The  Lady  of  the  Lake." 

2tS0»     Ellen  — The  Lady  of  the  Lakb. 

But  scarce  again  his  horn  he  wound. 
When  lo !  forth  starting  at  the  sound, 
From  underneath  an  aged  oak 
That  slanted  from  the  islet  rock, 
A  damsel  guider  of  its  way, 
A  little  skiff  shot  to  the  bay. 


334  WALTER   SCOTT.  Chap.  XIX 

With  head  upraised,  and  look  intent, 
And  eje  and  ear  attentive  bent, 
And  locks  flung  back,  and  lips  apart, 
Like  monument  of-Grecian  art, 
In  listening  mood  she  seemed  to  stand, 
The  guardian  Naiad  of  the  strand. 

And  ne'er  did  Grecian  chisel  trace 
A  Njmph,  a  Naiad,  or  a  Grace 
Of  finer  form,  or  lovelier  face ! 
What  though  the  sun,  with  ardent  frown, 
Had  slightly  tinged  her  cheek  with  brown  — 
What  though  no  rule  of  courtly  grace 
To  measured  mood  had  trained  her  pace  — 
A  foot  more  light,  a  step  more  true. 
Ne'er  from  the  heath-flower  dashed  the  dew; 
E'en  the  slight  harebell  raised  its  head, 
Elastic  from  her  airy  tread  : 
What  though  upon  her  speech  there  hung 
The  accents  of  the  mountain  tongue  — 
Those  silver  sounds,  so  soft,  so  dear, 
The  listener  held  his  breath  to  hear ! 

A  chieftain's  daughter  seemed  the  maid ; 
Her  satin  snood,  her  silken  plaid. 
Her  golden  brooch,  such  birth  betrayed. 
And  seldom  was  a  snood  amid 
Such  wild  luxuriant  ringlets  hid. 
Whose  glossy  black  to  shame  might  bring 
The  plumage  of  the  raven's  wing; 
And  seldom  o'er  a  breast  so  fair 
Mantled  a  plaid  with  modest  care ; 
And  never  brooch  the  folds  combined 
Above  a  heart  more  good  and  kind. 
Her  kindness  and  her  worth  to  spy, 
You  need  but  gaze  on  Ellen's  eye ; 
Not  Katrine,  in  her  mirror  blue. 
Gives  back  the  shaggy  banks  more  true. 
Than  every  free-born  glance  confessed 
The  guileless  movements  of  her  breast; 
Whether  joy  danced  in  her  dark  eye, 
Or  woe  or  pity  claimed  a  sigh. 
Or  filial  love  was  glowing  there, 
Or  meek  devotion  poured  a  prayer. 
Or  tale  of  injury  called  forth 
The  indignant  spirit  of  the  Nortli. 


^.  D.  1771-1832.  WALTER   SCOTT.  33b 

One  only  passion  unrevealed 
With  maiden  pride  the  maid  concealed, 
Yet  not  less  purely  felt  the  flame ;  — 
O  need  I  tell  that  passion's  name ! 


200»   Paternal  Affection. 

Some  feelings  are  to  mortals  given, 

With  less  of  earth  in  them  than  heaven ; 

And  if  there  be  a  human  tear 

From  passion's  dross  refined  and  clear, 

A  tear  so  limpid  and  so  meek. 

It  would  not  stain  an  angel's  cheek, 

'Tis  that  v^'hich  pious  fathers  shed 

Upon  a  duteous  daughter's  head  I 


From  "  The  Antiquary." 
2 Sim    Sunset  and  the  Approach  of  a  Storm. 

As  Sir  Arthur  and  Miss  Wardour  paced  along,  enjoying  the  pleas- 
ant footing  afforded  by  the  cool  moist  hard  sand,  Miss  Wardour  could 
not  help  observing,  that  the  last  tide  had  risen  considerably  above 
the  usual  water-mark.  Sir  Arthur  made  the  same  observation,  but 
without  its  occurring  to  either  of  them  to  be  alarmed  at  the  circum- 
stance. The  sun  was  now  resting  his  huge  disk  upon  the  edge  of  the 
level  ocean,  and  gilded  the  accumulation  of  towering  clouds  through 
which  he  had  travelled  the  livelong  day,  and  which  now  assembled 
on  all  sides,  like  misfortunes  and  disasters  around  a  sinking  empire 
and  falling  monarch.  Still,  however,  his  dying  splendor  gave  a  som- 
bre magnificence  to  the  massive  congregation  of  vapors,  forming  out 
of  their  unsubstantial  glooin,  the  show  of  pyramids  and  towers,  some 
touched  with  gold,  some  with  purple,  some  with  a  hu&  of  deep  and 
dark  red.  The  distant  sea,  stretched  beneath  this  varied  and  gor- 
geous canopy,  lay  almost  portentously  still,  reflecting  back  the  daz- 
zling and  level  beams  of  the  descending  luminary,  and  the  splendid 
coloring  of  the  clouds  amidst  which  he  was  setting.  Nearer  to  the 
beach  the  tide  rippled  onwards  in  waves  of  sparkling  silver,  that  im- 
perceptibly, yet  rapidly,  gained  upon  the  sand. 

With  a  mind  employed  in  admiration  of  the  romantic  scene,  or  per- 
haps on  some  more  agitating  topic,  Miss  Wardour  advanced  in  silence 
by  her  father's  side,  whose  recently  offended  dignity  did  not  stoop  to 
open  any  conversation.  Following  the  windings  of  the  beach,  they 
passed  one  projecting  point  or  headland  of  rock  after  another,  and 
now  found  themselves  under  a  huge  and  continued  extent  of  the  preci- 
pices by  which  that  iron-bound  coast  is  in  most  places  defended. 
Long  projecting  reefs  of  rock,  extending  under  water,  and  only  evin* 


336  WALTER   SCOTT.  Chap.  XIX. 

cing  their  existence  bj  here  and  there  a  peak  entirely  bare,  or  by  the 
breakers  which  foamed  over  those  that  were  partially  covered,  ren- 
dered Knockwinnock  bay  dreaded  by  pilots  and  ship-masters.  The 
crags  which  rose  between  the  beach  and  the  main  land,  to  the  height 
of  two  or  three  hundred  feet,  afforded  in  their  crevices  shelter  for 
unnumbered  sea-fowl,  in  situations  seemingly  secured  by  their  dizzy 
lieight  from  the  rapacity  of  man.  Many  of  these  wild  tribes,  with  the 
instinct  which  sends  them  to  seek  the  land  before  a  storm  arises,  were 
now  winging  towards  their  nests  with  the  shrill  and  dissonant  clang 
which  announces  disquietude  and  fear.  The  disk  of  the  sun  became 
almost  totally  obscured  ere  he  had  altogether  sunk  below  the  horizon, 
and  an  early  and  lurid  shade  of  darkness  blotted  the  serene  twilight 
of  a  summer  evening.  The  wind  began  next  to  arise;  but  its  wild 
and  moaning  sound  was  heard  for  some  time,  and  its  effects  became 
visible  on  the  bosom  of  the  sea,  before  the  gale  was  felt  on  shore.  The 
mass  of  waters,  now  dark  and  threatening,  began  to  lift  itself  in  larger 
ridges,  and  sink  in  deeper  furrows,  forming  waves  that  rose  high  in 
foam  upon  the  breakers,  or  burst  upon  the  beach  with  a  sound  re- 
sembling distant  thunder. 


From  "The  Heart  of  Mid-Lothian." 

202»    Description  of  Richmond. 

The  carriage  rolled  rapidly  onwards  through  fertile  meadows,  orna- 
mented with  splendid  old  oaks,  and  catching  occasionally  a  glance  of 
the  majestic  mirror  of  a  broad  and  placid  river.  After  passing  through 
a  pleasant  village,  the  equipage  stopped  on  a  commanding  eminence, 
where  the  beauty  of  English  landscape  was  displayed  in  its  utmost 
luxuriance.  Here  the  Duke  alighted,  and  desired  Jeanie  to  follow 
him.  They  paused  for  a  moment  on  the  brow  of  a  hill,  to  gaze  on  the 
unrivalled  landscape  which  it  presented.  A  huge  sea  of  verdure,  with 
crossing  and  intersecting  promontories  of  massive  and  tufted  groves, 
was  tenanted  by  numberless  flocks  and  herds,  which  seemed  to  wander 
unrestrained  and  unbounded  through  the  rich  pastures.  The  Thames, 
here  turreted  with  villas,  and  there  garlanded  with  forests,  moved  on 
slowly  and  placidly,  like  the  mighty  monarch  of  the  scene,  to  whom 
all  its  other  beauties  were  but  accessories,  and  bore  on  its  bosom  a 
hundred  barks  and  skiffs,  whose  white  sails  and  gayly  fluttering  pen- 
nons gave  life  to  the  whole. 


From  "Ivanhoe." 

203»   Rebecca  describes  the  Siege  to  the  wounded  Ivanhoe. 

*'  And  I  must  lie  here  like  a  bedridden  monk,"  exclaimed  Ivanhoe, 
**  while  the  game  that  gives  me  freedom  or  death  is  played  out  by  the 
hand  of  others  I    -Look  from  the  window  once  again,  kind  maiden, 


A.  1).  1771-1832,  WALTER  SCOTT,  337 

but  beware  that  you  are  not  marked  by  the  archers  beneath  —  Look 
out  once  more,  and  tell  me  if  they  yet  advance  to  the  storm." 

With  patient  courage,  strengthened  by  the  interval  which  she  had 
employed  in  mental  devotion,  Rebecca  again  took  post  at  the  lattice, 
sheltering  herself,  however,  so  as  not  to  be  visible  from  ben'^ath. 

"What  dost  thou  see,  Rebecca?"  again  demanded  the  wounded 
knight. 

"  Nothing  but  the  cloud  of  arrows  flying  so  thick  as  to  dazzle  mine 
eyes,  and  to  hide  the  bowmen  who  shoot  them." 

"  That  cannot  endure,"  said  Ivanhoe;  **  if  they  press  not  right  on 
to  carry  the  castle  by  pure  force  of  arms,  the  archery  may  avail  but 
little  against  stone  walls  and  bulwarks.  Look  for  the  Knight  of  the 
Fetterlock,  fair  Rebecca,  and  see  how  he  bears  himself;  for  as  the 
leader  is,  so  will  his  followers  be." 

"  I  see  hira  not,"  said  Rebecca. 

"Foul  craven  I"  exclaimed  Ivanhoe;  "does  he  blench  from  the 
helm  when  the  wind  blows  highest?" 

"He  blenches  not!  he  blenches  not!  "  said  Rebecca.  "I  see  him 
now;  he  leads  a  body  of  men  close  under  the  outer  barrier  of  the  bar- 
bican. —  They  pull  down  the  piles  and  palisades;  Xh.e.y  hew  down  the 
barriers  with  axes.  —  His  high  black  plume  floats  abroad  over  the 
throng,  like  a  raven  over  the  field  of  the  slain.  — They  have  made  a 
breach  in  the  barriers  —  they  rush  in  —  they  are  thrust  back  i  —  Front- 
de-Bceuf  heads  tlie  defenders;  I  see  his  gigantic  form  above  the  press. 
They  throng  again  to  the  breach,  and  the  pass  is  disputed  hand  to 
hand,  and  man  to  man.  God  of  Jacob!  it  is  the  meeting  of  two  fierce 
tides  —  the  conflict  of  two  oceans  moved  by  adverse  winds!  " 

She  turned  her  head  from  the  lattice,  as  if  unable  longer  to  endure 
a  sight  so  terrible. 

"  Look  forth  again,  Rebecca,"  said  Ivanhoe,  mistaking  the  cause 
of  her  retiring;  "  the  archery  must  in  some  degree  have  ceased,  since 
they  are  now  fighting  hand  to  hand.  —  Look  again ;  there  is  now  less 
danger." 

Rebecca  again  looked  forth,  and  almost  immediately  exclaimed, 
"  Holy  prophets  of  the  law!  Front-de-Boeuf  and  the  Black  Knight 
fight  hand  to  hand  on  the  breach,  amid  the  roar  of  their  followers, 
who  watch  the  progress  of  the  strife.  —  Heaven  strike  with  the  cause 
of  the  oppressed  and  of  the  captive!  "  She  then  uttered  a  loud  shriek, 
and  exclaimed,  "  He  is  down  !  —  he  is  down  !  " 

"Who  is  down?"  cried  Ivanhoe;  "for  our  dear  Lady's  sake,  tell 
me  which  has  fallen?" 

"The  Black  Knight,"  answered  Rebecca,  faintly;  then  instantly 
again  shouted  with  joyful  eagerness  —  "  But  no  —  but  no !  —  the  name 
of  the  Lord  of  Hosts  be  blessed !  —  he  is  on  foot  again,  and  fights  as 
if  there  were  twenty  men's  strength  in  his  single  arm  —  His  sword  is 
broken  —  he  snatches  an  axe  from  a  yeoman  —  he  presses  Front-de- 
Boeuf  with  blow  on  blow  —  The  giant  stoops  and  totters  like  an  oak 
under  the  steel  of  the  woodman  —  he  falls  —  he  falls  I  " 

22 


'638  WALTER   SCOTT.  Chap.  XIX. 

"  Front-de-Boeuf?  "  exclaimed  Ivanhoe. 

*' Front-de-BcEuf !  "  answered  the  Jewess;  "his  men  rush  to  the 
rescue,  headed  by  the  haughty  Templar — their  united  force  compels 
the  champion  to  pause  —  Thej  drag  Front-de-Boeuf  within  the 
walls." 

"The  assailants  have  won  the  barriers,  have  they  not?"  said 
Ivanhoe. 

"  They  have  —  they  have !  "  exclaimed  Rebecca  —  "  and  they  press 
the  besieged  hard  upon  the  outer  wall ;  some  plant  ladders,  some 
swarm  like  bees,  and  endeavor  to  ascend  upon  the  shoulders  of  each 
other  —  down  go  stones,  beams,  and  trunks  of  trees  upon  their  heads, 
and  as  fast  as  they  bear  the  wounded  to  the  rear,  fresh  men  supply 
their  places  in  the  assault  —  Great  God!  hast  thou  given  men  thine 
own  image,  that  it  should  be  thus  cruelly  defaced  by  the  hands  of 
their  brethren !  " 

"Think  not  of  that,"  said  Ivanhoe;  "this  is  no  time  for  such 
thoughts  —  Who  yield  .'*  —  who  push  their  way  ?  " 

"The  ladders  are  thrown  down,"  replied  Rebecca,  shuddering; 
"the  soldiers  lie  grovelling  under  them  like  crushed  reptiles  —  The 
besieged  have  the  better." 

"  Saint  George  strike  for  us!  "  exclaimed  the  knight;  "  do  the  false 
yeomen  give  way.^*" 

"  No  !  "  exclaimed  Rebecca,  "  they  bear  themselves  right  yeomanly 
—  the  Black  Knight  approaches  the  postern  with  his  huge  axe  —  the 
thundering  blows  which  he  deals,  you  may  hear  them  above  all  the 
din  and  shouts  of  the  battle  —  Stones  and  beams  are  hailed  down  on 
the  bold  champion  —  he  regards  them  no  more  than  if  they  were 
thistle-down  or  feathers  !  " 

"  By  Saint  John  of  Acre,"  said  Ivanhoe,  raising  himself  joyfully 
on  his  couch,  "  methought  there  was  but  one  man  in  England  that 
might  do  such  a  deed !  " 

"  The  postern  gate  shakes,"  continued  Rebecca;  "  it  crashes —  it  is 
splintered  by  his  blows  —  they  rush  in  —  the  outwork  is  won  —  O 
God!  —  they  hurl  the  defenders  from  the  battlements  —  they  throw 
them  into  the  moat — O  men,  if  ye  be  indeed  men,  spare  them  that 
can  resist  no  longer!  " 

"The  bridge  —  the  bridge  which  communicates  with  the  castle  — 
have  they  won  that  pass.?"  exclaimed  Ivanhoe. 

"  No,"  replied  Rebecca,  "  the  Templar  has  destroyed  the  plank  on 
which  they  crossed  —  few  of  the  defenders  escaped  with  him  into  the 
castle  —  the  shrieks  and  cries  which  you  hear  tell  the  fate  of  the  oth- 
ers —  Alas  I  I  see  it  is  still  more  difficult  to  look  upon  victory  thao 
upon  battle." 


A.  D.  178S-1824.  LORD  BYRON,  33*i 


\ 


CHAPTER  XX. 

BYRON,    MOORE,    SHELLEY,    KEATS,   AND    CAMPBELL. 


Lord  Byron.     17S8-1S24.    (Manual,  pp.  396-404.) 

From  "  Childe  Harold." 

204,    The  Eve  of  the  Battle  of  Waterloo. 

There  was  a  sound  of  revelry  by  night, 
And  Belgium's  capital  had  gathered  then 
Her  Beauty  and  her  Chivalry,  and  bright 
The  lamps  shone  o'er  fair  women  and  brave  men ; 
A  thousand  hearts  beat  happily;  and  when 
Music  arose  with  its  voluptuous  swell. 
Soft  eyes  looked  love  to  eyes  which  spake  again, 
And  all  went  merry  as  a  marriage  bell ; 
But  hush!  hark!  a  deep  sound  strikes  like  a  rising  knell  J 

Did  ye  not  hear  it.''  —  No  ;  'twas  but  the  wind, 
Or  the  car  rattling  o'er  the  stony  street; 
On  with  the  dance  !  let  joy  be  unconfined  ; 
No  sleep  till  morn,  when  Youth  and  Pleasure  meet 
To  chase  the  glowing  Hours  with  flying  feet  — 
But  hark!  —  that  heavy  sound  breaks  in  once  more, 
As  if  the  clouds  its  echo  would  repeat; 
And  nearer,  clearer,  deadlier  than  before! 
Arm  !  Arm  !  it  is  —  it  is  —  the  cannon's  opening  roar !  ' 

Within  a  windowed  niche  of  that  high  hall 
Sate  Brunswick's  fated  chieftain;  he  did  hear 
That  sound  the  first  amidst  the  festival, 
And  caught  its  tone  with  Death's  prophetic  ear; 
And  when  they  smiled  because  he  deemed  it  near. 
His  heart  more  truly  knew  that  peal  too  well 
Which  stretched  his  father  on  a  bloody  bier, 
And  roused  the  vengeance  blood  alone  could  quell ; 
He  rushed  into  the  field,  and,  foremost  fighting,  fell.* 

1  The  sound  of  the  cannon  decided  the  Duke  of  Wellington  to  appear  at  the  ball,  where  he  -et  ft>*v 
till  three  o'clock  in  the  morning,  that  he  might  calm,  by  his  apparent  indifference,  the  fears  of  his  su^ 
porters  in  Brussels,  and  depress  the  hopes  of  the  well-wishers  to  the  French. 

2  The  Duke  of  Brunswick  was  killed  at  Qiiatre  Bras  on  the  16th  of  June.  His  father  received  tb 
•  oiuid«,  of  whieh  he  aflerwards  died,  at  the  battle  of  Jena,  in  1806. 


340  LORD  BYRON.  Chap.  XX. 

Ah !  then  and  there  was  hurrying  to  and  fro, 
And  gathering  tears,  and  tremblings  of  distress, 
And  cheeks  all  pale,  -v^ich  but  an  hour  ago 
Blushed  at  the  praise  of  their  own  loveliness ; 
And  there  were  sudden  partings,  such  as  press 
The  life  from  out  young  hearts,  and  choking  sighs 
Which  ne'er  might  be  repeated ;  who  could  guess 
If  ever  more  should  meet  those  mutual  eyes. 
Since  upon  night  so  sweet  such  awful  morn  could  rise  1 

And  there  was  mounting  in  hot  haste  :  the  steed, 
The  mustering  squadron,  and  the  clattering  car, 
Went  pouring  forward  with  impetuous  speed. 
And  swiftly  forming  in  the  ranks  of  war; 
And  the  deep  thunder  peal  on  peal  afar; 
And  near,  the  beat  of  the  alarming  drum 
Roused  up  the  soldier  ere  the  morning  star; 
While  thronged  the  citizens  with  terror  dumb. 
Or  whispering,  with  white  lips —  "The  foe!    They  come!  thev 
come ! " 


203,    Rome. 

O  Rome  !  my  country !  city  of  the  soul ! 
The  orphans  of  the  heart  must  turn  to  thee, 
Lone  mother  of  dead  empires  !  and  control 
In  their  shut  breasts  their  petty  misery. 
What  are  our  woes  and  sufferance?     Come  and  see 
The  cypress,  hear  the  owl,  and  plod  your  way 
O'er  steps  of  broken  thrones  and  temples,  ye,  • 

Whose  agonies  are  evils  of  a  day  — 
A  world  is  at  our  feet  as  fragile  as  our  clay. 

The  Niobe  of  nations !  there  she  stands. 
Childless  and  crownless,  in  her  voiceless  woe; 
An  empty  urn  within  her  withered  hands, 
Whose  holy  dust  was  scattered  long  ago ; 
The  Scipios'  tomb  contains  no  ashes  now; 
The  very  sepulchres  lie  tenantless 
Of  their  heroic  dwellers  :  dost  thou  flow. 
Old  Tiber!  through  a  marble  wilderness? 
Rise,  with  thy  yellow  waves,  and  mantle  her  distress. 


206*   The  Gladiator. 

I  see  before  me  the  Gladiator  lie  : 

He  leans  upon  his  hand  —  his  manly  brow 

Consents  to  death,  but  conquers  agony, 


A.  D.  1788-1824.  LORD   BYRON.  341 

And  his  drooped  head  sinks  gradually  low  — 
And  through  his  side  the  last  drops,  ebbing  slow 
From  the  red  gash,  fall  heavy,  one  by  one, 
Like  the  first  of  a  thunder-shower;  and  now 
The  arena  swims  around  him  —  he  is  gone, 
Ere  ceased  the  inhuman  shout  which  hailed  the  wretch  who  won 

He  heard  it,  but  he  heeded  not  —  his  eyes 
Were  with  his  heart,  and  that  was  far  away; 
He  recked  not  of  the  life  he  lost  nor  prize, 
But  where  his  rude  hut  by  the  Danube  lay, 
There  were  his  young  barbarians  all  at  plaj', 
There  was  their  Dacian  mother —  he,  their  sire, 
Butchered  to  make  a  Roman  holiday; 
All  this  rushed  with  his  blood  —  Shall  he  expire 
And  unavenged?  —  Arise!  ye  Goths,  and  glut  your  irel 


267.    The  Ocean. 


There  is  a  pleasure  in  the  pathless  woods, 
There  is  a  rapture  on  the  lonely  shore. 
There  is  society,  where  none  intrudes. 
By  the  deep  Sea,  and  music  in  its  roar: 
I  love  not  Man  the  less,  but  Nature  more, 
From  these  our  interviews,  in  which  I  steal 
From  all  I  may  be,  or  have  been  before. 
To  mingle  with  the  Universe,  and  feel 
What  I  can  ne'er  express,  yet  cannot  all  conceal. 

Roll  on,  thou  deep  and  dark  blue  Ocean  —  roll  I 
Ten  thousand  fleets  sweep  over  thee  in  vain ; 
Man  marks  the  earth  with  ruin  —  his  control 
Stops  with  the  shore;  upon  the  watery  plain 
The  wrecks  are  all  thy  deed,  nor  doth  remain 
A  shadow  of  man's  ravage,  save  his  own, 
When,  for  a  moment,  like  a  drop  of  rain, 
He  sinks  into  thy  depths  with  bubbling  groan. 
Without  a  grave,  unknelled,  uncofiined,  and  unknown. 

His  steps  are  not  upon  thy  paths,  —  thy  fields 
Are  not  a  spoil  for  him,  —  thou  dost  arise 
And  shake  him  from  thee;  the  vile  strength  he  wields 
For  earth's  destruction  thou  dost  all  despise. 
Spurning  him  from  thy  bosom  to  the  skies, 
And  send'st  him,  shivering  in  thy  playful  spray 
And  howling,  to  his  Gods,  where  haply  lies 
His  petty  hope  in  some  near  port  or  bay. 
And  d  ishest  him  again  to  earth  :  —  there  let  him  lay. 


S42  LORD  BYRON.  Chap.  XX. 

The  armaments  which  thunderstrike  the  walls 
Of  rock-built  cities,  bidding  nations  quake, 
And  monarchs  tremble  in  their  capitals, 
The  oak  leviathans,  whose  huge  ribs  make 
Their  clay  creator  the  vain  title  take 
Of  lord  of  thee,  and  arbiter  of  war,  — 
These  are  thy  toys,  and,  as  the  snowy  flake, 
They  melt  into  thy  yeast  of  waves,  which  mar 
Alike  the  Armada's  pride  or  spoils  of  Trafalgar. 

Thy  shores  are  empires,  changed  in  all  save  thee  — 

Assyria,  Greece,  Rome,  Carthage,  what  are  they? 

Thy  waters  washed  them  power  while  they  were  free, 

And  many  a  tyrant  since;  their  shores  obey 

The  stranger,  slave,  or  savage ;  their  decay 

Has  dried  up  realms  to  deserts  :  —  not  so  thou  ;  — 

Unchangeable,  save  to  thy  wild  waves'  play, 

Time  writes  no  wrinkle  on  thine  azure  brow; 

Such  as  creation's  dawn  beheld,  thou  rollest  now. 

Thou  glorious  mirror,  where  the  Almighty's  form 
Glasses  itself  in  tempests;  in  all  time, — 
Calm  or  convulsed,  in  breeze  or  gale  or  storm, 
Icing  the  pole,  or  in  the  torrid  clime 
Dark  heaving  —  boundless,  endless,  and  sublime. 
The  image  of  eternity,  the  throne 
Of  the  Invisible ;  even  from  out  thy  slime 
The  monsters  of  the  deep  are  made ;  each  zone 
Obeys  thee ;  thou  go'st  forth,  dread,  fathomless,  alone. 

And  I  have  loved  thee,  Ocean  !  and  my  joy 
Of  youthful  sports  was  on  thy  breast  to  be 
Borne,  like  thy  bubbles,  onward  :  from  a  boy 
I  wantoned  with  thy  breakers  —  they  to  me 
Were  a  delight;  and  if  the  freshening  sea 
Made  them  a  terror  —  'twas  a  pleasing  fear. 
For  I  was  as  it  were  a  child  of  thee, 
And  trusted  to  thy  billows  far  and  near, 
And  laid  my  hand  upon  thy  mane  —  as  I  do  here. 


From  "The  Giaour." 
208*    Modern  Greece. 

Clime  of  the  unforgotten  brave  ! 
Whose  land  from  plain  to  mountain-cave 
Was  Freedom's  home  or  Glory's  gravel 
Shrine  of  the  mighty!  can  it  be. 
That  this  is  all  remains  of  thee? 


A.  D.  1788-1824.  LORD   BYRON.  343 

Approach,  thou  craven  crouching  sUve : 

Say,  is  not  this  Thermopjlse? 
These  waters  blue  that  round  you  lave, 

O  servile  oftspring  of  the  free, 
Pronounce  what  sea,  what  shore  is  this? 
The  gulf,  the  rock  of  Salamis ! 
These  scenes,  their  story  not  unknown, 
Arise,  and  make  again  your  own  ; 
Snatch  from  the  ashes  of  your  sires 
The  embers  of  their  former  fires ; 
And  he  who  in  the  strife  expires 
Will  add  to  theirs  a  name  of  fear 
That  Tyranny  shall  quake  to  hear, 
And  leave  his  sons  a  hope,  a  fame. 
They  too  will  rather  die  than  shame: 
For  Freedom's  battle  once  begun. 
Bequeathed  by  bleeding  Sire  to  Son, 
Though  baffled  oft  is  ever  won. 
Bear  witness,  Greece,  thy  living  page! 
Attest  it  many  a  deathless  age! 
While  kings,  in  dusty  darkness  hid. 
Have  left  a  nameless  pyramid, 
Thy  heroes,  though  the  general  doom 
Hath  swept  the  column  from  their  tombt 
A  mightier  monument  command, 
The  mountains  of  their  native  land  ! 
There  points  thy  Muse  to  stranger's  eye 
The  graves  o(  those  that  cannot  die! 
'Twere  long  to  teil,  and  sad  to  trace. 
Each  step  from  splen-dor  to  -disgrace; 
Enough  —  no  foreign  foe  could  queli 
Thy  soul,  till  from  itself  it  fell; 
Yes!     Self-abasement  paved  the  way 
To  villain-bonds  and  despot  sway. 


260,    The  Flight  of  the  Giaouh, 

On  — on  he  hastened,  and  he  drew 
My  gaze  of  wonder  as  he  flew : 
Though  like  a  demon  of  the  night 
He  passed,  and  vanished  from  my  sight. 
His  aspect  and  his  air  impressed 
A  troubled  memory  on  my  breast, 
And  long  upon  my  startled  ear 
Rung  his  dark  courser's  hoofs  of  fear. 
He  spurs  his  steed;  he  nears  the  steep. 
That,  jutting,  shadows  o'er  the  deepj 


344  LORD  BYRON,  Chap.  XX 

He  winds  around ;  he  hurries  bj  : 
The  rock  relieves ^im  from  mine  eje; 
For  well  I  ween  unwelcome  he 
Whose  glance  is  fixed  on  those  that  flee; 
And  not  a  star  but  shines  too  bright 
On  him  who  takes  such  timeless  flight, 
He  wound  along ;  but  ere  he  passed 
One  glance  he  snatched,  as  if  his  last, 
A  moment  checked  his  wheeling  steed, 
A  moment  breathed  him  from  his  speed, 
A  moment  on  his  stirnap  stood  — 
Why  looks  he  o'er  the  olive  wood? 


He  stood  —  some  dread  was  o^n  his  face. 
Soon  Hatred  settled  in  its  place  : 
It  rose  not  with  the  reddening  flush 
Of  transient  Anger's  hasty  bkish, 
Bu.t  pale  as  marble  o'er  the  tomb, 
Whose  ghastly  whiteness  aids  its  gloo-n®> 
His  brow  was  bent,  his  eye  was  glazed  j 
He  raised  his  arm,  and  fiercely  raised, 
And  sternly  shook  his  hand  on  high. 
As  doubting  to  return  or  fly; 
Impatient  of  his  flight  delaj'ed, 
Here  loud  his  raven  charger  neighed  — 
Down  glanced  that  hand,  and  grasped  his  blade; 
That  sound  had  burst  his  waking  drean», 
As  Slumber  starts  at  owlet's  screan>. 
The  spur  hath  lanced  his  courser's  sides ; 
Away,  away,  for  life  he  rides. 
'Twas  but  an  instant  he  restrained 
That  fiery  barb  so  sternly  reined; 
'Twas  but  a  moment  that  he  stood. 
Then  sped  as  if  by  death  pursued; 
But  in  that  instant  o'er  his  soul 
Winters  of  Memory  seemed  to  rol'?, 
And  gather  in  that  drop  of  time 
A  life  of  pain,  an  age  of  crime. 
O'er  him  who  loves,^  or  hates,  or  fears. 
Such  moment  pours  the  grief  of  years  s 
What  felt  he  then,  at  once  opprest 
By  all  that  most  distracts  the  breajst? 
That  pause,  which  pondered  o'er  his  fate, 
O,  who  its  dreary  length  shall  date ! 
Though  in  Time's  record  nearly  nought. 
It  was  Eternity  to  Thought  I 


A.  D.  1788-1824.  LORD   BYRON,  345 

From  "The  Bride  of  Abydos  " 
27 0*    The  Crime  of  the  East. 

Know  ye  the  land  where  the  cypress  and  myrtle 

Are  emblems  of  deeds  that  are  done  in  their  clime? 

Where  the  rage  of  the  vulture,  the  love  of  the  turtle, 
Now  melt  into  sorrow ,  now  madden  to  crime ! 

Know  ye  the  land  of  the  cedar  and  vine, 

Where  the  flowers  ever  blossom,  the  beams  ever  shine ; 

Where  the  light  wings  of  Zephyr,  oppressed  with  perfume, 

Wax  faint  o'er  the  gardens  of  Gul  *  in  her  bloom ; 

Where  the  citron  and  olive  are  fairest  of  fruit, 

And  the  voice  of  the  nightingale  never  is  mute  : 

Where  the  tints  of  the  earth,  and  the  hues  of  the  sky, 

In  color  though  varied,  in  beauty  may  vie. 

And  the  purple  of  ocean  is  deepest  in  dye; 

Where  the  virgins  are  soft  as  the  roses  they  twine, 

And  all,  save  the  spirit  of  man,  is  divine? 

'Tis  the  clime  of  the  East;  'tis  the  land  of  the  Sun  — 

Can  he  smile  on  such  deeds  as  his  children  have  done? 

O!  wild  as  the  accents  of  lovers'  farewell 

Are  the  hearts  which  they  bear,  and  the  tales  which  they  tell. 

1  The  Rose. 


From  "The  Corsair.". 

271,    A  Ship  in  full  Sail. 

How  gloriously  her  gallant  course  she  goes  I 
Her  white  wings  flying —  never  from  her  foes  — 
She  walks  the  waters  like  a  thing  of  life, 
And  seems  to  dare  the  elements  to  strife. 
Who  would  not  brave  the  battle-fire,  the  wreck, 
To  move  the  monarch  of  her  peopled  deck? 


272,    Remorse. 

There  is  a  war,  a  chaos  of  the  mind, 

When  all  its  elements  convulsed  —  combined  — 

Lie  dark  and  jarring  with  perturbed  force. 

And  gnashing  with  impenitent  Remorse; 

That  juggling  fiend  —  who  never  spake  before  — 

But  cries,  "  I  warned  thee !  "  when  the  deed  is  o'er. 

No  single  passion,  and  no  ruling  thought 

That  leaves  the  rest  as  once  unseen,  unsought; 


846  LORD  BYRON.  Chap.  XX. 

But  the  wild  prospect  when  the  soul  reviews  — 

All  rushing  through  their  thousand  avenues. 

Ambition's  dreams  expiring,  love's  regret, 

Endangered  glorj,  life  itself  beset; 

The  joj  untasted,  the  contempt  or  hate 

'Gainst  those  who  fain  would  triumph  in  our  fate; 

The  hopeless  past,  the  hasting  future  driven 

Too  quickly  on  to  guess  if  hell  or  heaven ; 

Deeds,  thoughts,  and  words,  perhaps  remembered  not 

So  keenly  till  that  hour,  but  ne'er  forgot; 

Things  light  or  lovely  in  their  acted  time, 

But  now  to  stern  reflection  each  a  crime ; 

The  withering  sense  of  evil  unrevealed, 

Not  cankering  less  because  the  more  concealed  — 

All,  in  a  word,  from  which  all  eyes  must  start, 

That  opening  sepulchre  —  the  naked  heart 

Bares  with  its  buried  woes,  till  Pride  awake. 

To  snatch  the  mirror  from  the  soul  —  and  break. 


273,   From  "The  Prisoner  of  Chillon." 

Lake  Leman  lies  by  Chillon's  walls: 
A  thousand  feet  in  depth  below 
Its  massy  waters  meet  and  flow; 
Thus  much  the  fathom-line  was  sent 
From  Chillon's  snow-white  battlement, 

Which  round  about  the  wave  inthralls. 
A  double  dungeon  wall  and  wave 
Have  made  —  and  like  a  living  grave. 
Below  the  surface  of  the  lake 
The  dark  vault  lies  wherein  we  lay, 
We  heard  it  ripple  night  and  day; 

Sounding  o'er  our  heads  it  knocked; 
And  I  have  felt  the  winter's  spray 
Wash  through  the  bars  when  winds  were  high 
And  wanton  in  the  happy  sk^'; 

And  then  the  very  rock  hath  rocked. 

And  I  have  felt  it  shake,  un shocked, 
Because  I  could  have  smiled  to  see 
The  death  that  would  have  set  me  free. 


From  "Manfred." 
274*   Manfred's  Soliloquy  on  the  Jungfrau. 

My  mother  Earth ! 
And  thou,  fresh  breaking  Day,  and  you,  ye  Mountains, 
Why  are  ye  beautiful?     I  cannot  love  ye. 


A.  D.  1788-1824.  LOUD  BYRON.  347 

And  thou,  the  bright  eye  of  the  universe, 

That  open'st  over  all,  and  unto  all 

Art  a  delight  —  thou  shin'st  not  on  my  heart 

And  you,  ye  crags,  upon  whose  extreme  edge 

I  stand,  and  on  the  torrent's  brink  beneath 

Behold  the  tall  pines  dwindled  as  to  shrubs 

In  dizziness  of  distance;  when  a  leap, 

A  stir,  a  motion,  even  a  breath,  would  bring 

My  breast  upon  its  rocky  bosom's  bed 

To  rest  forever  —  wherefore  do  I  pause? 

I  feel  the  impulse  —  yet  I  do  not  plunge; 

I  see  the  peril  —  yet  do  not  recede  ; 

And  my  brain  reels  —  and  yet  my  foot  is  firm : 

There  is  a  power  upon  me  which  withholds, 

And  makes  it  my  fatality  to  live ; 

If  it  be  life  to  wear  within  myself 

This  barrenness  of  spirit,  and  to  be 

My  owR  soul's  sepulchre,  for  I  have  ceased 

To  justify  my  deeds  unto  myself  — 

The  last  infirmity  of  evil.     Ay, 

Thou  winged  and  cloud-cleaving  minister, 

{^An  eagie  passes 
Whose  happj^  flight  is  highest  into  heaven, 
Well  mayst  thou  swoop  so  near  me  —  I  should  be 
Thy  prey,  and  gorge  thine  eaglets;  thou  art  gone 
Where  the  eye  cannot  follow  thee;  but  thine 
Yet  pierces  downward,  onward,  or  above, 
With  a  pervading  vision.  — Beautiful! 
How  beautiful  is  all  this  visible  world! 
How  glorious  in  its  action  and  itselfl 
But  we,  who  name  ourselves  its  sovereigns,  we. 
Half  dust,  half  deity,  alike  unfit 
To  sink  or  soar,  with  our  mixed  essence  make 
A  conflict  of  its  elements,  and  breathe 
The  breath  of  degradation  and  of  pride, 
Contending  with  low  wants  and  lofty  will. 
Till  our  mortality  predominates. 
And  men  are  —  what  they  name  not  to  themselves, 
And  trust  not  to  each  other.     Hark!  the  note, 

{^Tke  Shepherd'' s  pipe  in  the  distance  is  heard 
The  natural  music  of  the  mountain  reed  — 
For  here  the  patriarchal  days  arc  not 
A  pastoral  fable  —  pipes  in  the  liberal  air. 
Mixed  with  the  sweet  bells  of  the  sauntering  herd; 
M}'  soul  would  drink  those  echoes.  — O  that  I  were 
The  viewless  spirit  of  a  lovely  sound, 
A  living  voice,  a  breathing  harmony, 
A  bodiless  enjoyment  —  born  and  dying 
With  the  blest  tone  which  made  mo! 


848  LORD  BYRON.  Chap.  XX. 


2  To,   The  Coliseum. 

« 

The  stars  are  forth,  the  moon  above  the  tops 

Of  the  snow-shining  mountains.  —  Beautiful! 

I  linger  jet  with  Nature,  for  the  Night 

Hath  been  to  me  a  more  familiar  face 

Than  that  of  man ;  and  in  her  starrj  shade 

Of  dim  and  solitary  loveliness, 

I  learned  the  language  of  another  world. 

I  do  remember  me,  that  in  my  youth, 

When  I  was  wandering  —  upon  such  a  night 

I  stood  within  the  Coliseum's  wall, 

^lidst  the  chief  relics  of  almighty  Rome ; 

The  trees  which  grew  along  the  broken  arches 

Waved  dark  in  the  blue  midnight,  and  the  stars 

Shone  through  the  rents  of  ruin ;  from  afar 

The  watch-dog  bayed  beyond  the  Tiber;  and 

More  near  from  out  the  Caesars'  palace  came 

The  owl's  long  cry,  and,  interruptedly, 

Of  distant  sentinels  the  fitful  song 

Begun  and  died  upon  the  gentle  wind. 

Some  cypresses  beyond  the  time-worn  breach 

Appeared  to  skirt  th'  horizon,  yet  they  stood 

Within  a  bowshot.     Where  the  Ccesars  dwelt, 

And  dwell  the  tuneless  birds  of  night,  amidst 

A  grove  which  springs  through  levelled  battlements. 

And  twines  its  roots  with  the  imperial  hearths, 

Ivy  usurps  the  laurel's  place  of  growth; 

But  the  gladiators'  bloody  Circus  stands, 

A  noble  wreck  in  ruinous  perfection, 

While  Ceesar's  chambers,  and  the  Augustan  halls. 

Grovel  on  earth  in  indistinct  decay. 

And  thou  didst  shine,  thou  rolling  moon,  upon 

All  this,  and  cast  a  wide  and  tender  light, 

Which  softened  down  the  hoar  austerity 

Of  rugged  desolation,  and  filled  up. 

As  'twere  anew,  the  gaps  of  centuries ; 

Leaving  that  beautiful  Avhich  still  was  so. 

And  making  that  which  was  not,  till  the  place 

Became  religion,  and  the  heart  ran  o'er 

With  silent  worship  of  the  great  of  old,  — 

The  dead,  but  sceptred  sovereigns,  who  still  rule 

Our  spirits  from  their  urns. 


^.  D.  1788-1824.  LORD   BYRON.  34S 

2tG»   The  Isles  of  Greece. 

The  isles  of  Greece,  the  isles  of  Greece ! 

Where  burning  Sappho  loved  and  sung, 
Where  grew  the  arts  of  war  and  peace, 

Where  Delos  rose,  and  Phoebus  sprung! 
Eternal  summer  gilds  them  yet, 
But  all,  except  their  sun,  is  set. 

The  Scian  and  the  Teian  muse, 

The  hero's  harp,  the  lover's  lute. 
Have  found  the  fame  your  shores  refuse; 

Their  place  of  birth  alone  is  mute 
To  sounds  which  echo  farther  west 
Than  your  sires'  "  Islands  of  the  Blest.** 

The  mountains  look  on  Marathon  — 

And  Marathon  looks  on  the  sea; 
And  musing  there  an  hour  alone, 

I  dreamed  that  Greece  might  still  be  free; 
For  standing  on  the  Persians'  grave, 
I  could  not  deem  myself  a  slave. 

A  king  sate  on  the  rocky  brow 

Which  looks  o'er  sea-born  Salamis; 
And  ships,  by  thousands,  lay  below, 

And  men  in  nations ;  —  all  were  his  ! 
He  counted  them  at  break  of  day  — 
And  when  the  sun  set  where  were  they  } 

And  where  are  they?  and  where  art  thou. 
My  country?     On  thy  voiceless  shore 

The  heroic  lay  is  tuneless  now  — 
The  heroic  bosom  beats  no  more ! 

And  must  thy  lyre,  so  long  divine, 

Degenerate  into  hands  like  mine? 

'Tis  something,  in  the  dearth  of  fame, 
Though  linked  among  a  fettered  race, 

To  feel  at  least  a  patriot's  shame, 
Even  as  I  sing,  suftuse  my  face; 

For  what  is  left  the  poet  here? 

For  Greeks  a  blush  —  for  Greece  a  tear. 

Musi  7ve  but  weep  o'er  days  more  blest? 

Must  Tve  bu<-  Llush?  —  Our  fathers  bled. 
Earth  !   n  nuer  back  from  out  thy  breast 

A  remnant  of  our  Spartan  dead ! 
Of  the  three  hundred  grant  but  three, 
To  make  a  new  Thermopylse ! 


350  LORD  BYRON.  Chap.  XX. 

What,  silent  still?  and  silent  all? 

Ah  !  no  ;  —  the  voices  of  the  dead 
Sound  like  a  distant  torrent's  fall, 

And  answer,  "  Let  one  living  head, 
But  one  arise,  —  we  come,  we  come !  " 
'Tis  but  the  living  who  are  dumb. 

In  vain  —  in  vain  ;  strike  other  chords ; 

Fill  high  the  cup  with  Samian  wine  I 
Leave  battles  to  the  Turkish  hordes, 

And  shed  the  blood  of  Scio's  vinel 
Hark  !  rising  to  the  ignoble  call  — 
How  answers  each  bold  Bacchanal! 

You  have  the  Pyrrhic  dance  as  yet, 
Where  is  the  Pyrrhic  phalanx  gone? 

Of  two  such  les«ons,  why  forget 
The  nobler  and  the  manlier  one? 

You  have  the  letters  Cadmus  gave  — 

Think  ye  he  meant  them  for  a  slave? 

7(C  3fC  JJC  3(S  3|6  SI* 

Trust  not  for  freedom  to  the  Franks  — 
They  have  a  king  who  buys  and  sells : 

In  native  swords,  and  native  ranks, 
The  only  hope  of  courage  dwells  : 

But  Turkish  force,  and  Latin  fraud. 

Would  break  your  shield,  however  broad. 


277*   Armenia. 

On  my  arrival  at  Venice,  in  the  year  iSi6,  I  found  my  mind  in  3 
siate  which  required  study,  and  study  of  a  nature  which  should  leave 
little  scope  for  the  imagination,  and  furnish  some  difficulty  in  the 
pursuit. 

At  this  period  I  was  much  struck  —  in  common,  I  believe,  witu 
every  other  traveller  —  with  the  society  of  the  Convent  of  St.  Lazarus, 
which  appears  to  unite  all  the  advantages  of  the  monastic  institutior;, 
without  any  of  its  vices. 

The  neatness,  the  comfort,  the  gentleness,  the  unaffected  devotior., 
Ihe  accomplishments,  and   the  virtues  of  the  brethren  of  the  order, 
are  well  fitted  to  strike  the  man  of  the  world  with  the  conviction  tha 
'•  there  is  another  and  a  better"  even  in  this  life. 

These  men  are  the  priesthood  of  an  oppressed  and  a  noble  nation, 
which  has  partaken  of  the  proscription  and  bondage  of  the  Jews  aT>J 
of  the  Greeks,  without  the  sullenness  of  the  former  or  the  servility  o: 
rhe  latter.     This  people  has  attained  riches  without  usury,  and  all  the 


A.  D.  1779-1852.  THOMAS   MOOEE.  351 

honors  that  can  be  awarded  to  slavery  without  intrigue.  But  thej 
have  long  occupied,  nevertheless,  a  part  of  the  "  House  of  Bondage," 
who  has  lately  multiplied  her  many  mansions.  It  would  be  difficult, 
perhaps,  to  find  the  annals  of  a  nation  less  stained  with  crimes  thar^. 
those  of  the  Armenians,  whose  virtues  have  been  those  of  peace,  and 
their  vices  those  of  compulsion.  But  whatever  may  have  been  their 
destiny  —  and  it  has  been  bitter  —  whatever  it  may  be  in  future,  their 
country  must  ever  be  one  of  the  most  interesting  on  the  globe;  and 
perhaps  their  language  only  requires  to  be  more  studied  to  become 
more  attractive.  If  the  Scriptures  are  rightly  understood,  it  was  ir 
Armenia  that  Paradise  was  placed  —  Armenia,  which  has  paid  aS' 
dearly  as  the  descendants  of  Adam  for  that  fleeting  participation  oi 
its  soil  in  the  happiness  of  him  who  was  created  from  its  dust.  If 
was  in  Armenia  that  the  flood  first  abated,  and  the  dove  alighted. 
But  with  the  disappearance  of  Paradise  itself  may  be  dated  almost 
the  unhappiness  of  the  country;  for  though  long  a  powerful  kingdom, 
it  was  scarcely  ever  an  independent  one,  and  the  satraps  of  Persia 
and  the  pachas  of  Turkey  have  alike  desolated  the  region  where  Goci 
created  man  in  his  own  image. 


Thomas  Moore.     1779-1S52.     (Manual,  pp.  404-41 1.) 

From  "  Lalla  Rookh." 
27 S,    Paradise  and  the  Peri. 

One  morn  a  Peri  at  the  gate 
Of  Eden  stood,  disconsolate; 
And  as  she  listened  to  the  Springs 

Of  Life  within,  like  music  flowing, 
And  caught  the  light  upon  her  wings 

Through  the  half-open  portal  glowing, 
She  wept  to  think  her  recreant  race 
Should  e'er  have  lost  that  glorious  place! 
"  How  happy,"  exclaimed  this  child  of  air, 
*'  Are  the  holy  Spirits  who  wander  there, 

'Mid  flowers  that  never  shall  fade  or  fall ; 
Though  mine  are  the  gardens  of  earth  and  sea, 
And  the  stars  themselves  have  flowers  for  me, 

One  blossom  of  Heaven  outblooms  them  alH 
Though  sunny  the  Lake  of  cool  Cashmere, 
With  its  plane-tree  isle  reflected  clear. 

And  sweetl}'  the  founts  of  that  Valley  fall; 
Though  bright  are  the  waters  of  Sing-su-hay, 
And  the  golden  floods  that  thitherward  stray. 
Yet  —  O  !  'tis  only  the  Blest  can  say 

How  the  waters  of  Heaven  outshine  them  a.lll 


352  THOMAS  MOORE.  Chap.  XX. 

"  Go,  wing  thy  flight  from  star  to  star, 
From  world  to  luminous  world,  as  far 

As  the  universe  spreads  its  flaming  wall : 
Take  all  the  pleasures  of  all  the  spheres, 
And  multiply  each  through  endless  years. 

One  minute  of  Heaven  is  worth  them  all!'* 
The  glorious  Angel,  who  was  keeping 
The  gates  of  Light,  beheld  her  weeping! 
And,  as  he  nearer  drew  and  listened 
To  her  sad  song,  a  tear-drop  glistened 
Within  his  eyelids,  like  the  spray 

From  Eden's  fountain,  when  it  lies 
On  the  blue  flower,  which  — Bramins  say  — 

Blooms  nowhere  but  in  Paradise! 
"  Nymph  of  a  fair  but  erring  line  !  " 
Gently  he  said  —  "  One  hope  is  thine, 
'Tis  written  in  the  Book  of  Fate, 

The  Pert  yet  may  be  forgiven 
Who  brings  to  this  Eternal  gate 

The  Gift  that  is  most  dear  to  Heaven  I 
Go  seek  it,  and  redeem  thy  sin  — 
'Tis  sweet  to  let  the  Pardoned  in  !  " 


Cheered  by  this  hope  she  bends  her  thither; 

Still  laughs  the  radiant  eye  of  Heaven, 

Nor  have  the  golden  bowers  of  Even 
In  the  rich  West  begun  to  wither;  — 
When,  o'er  the  vale  of  Balbec  winging 

Slowly,  she  sees  a  child  at  plaj-, 
Among  the  rosy  wild-flowers  singing, 

As  rosy  and  as  wild  as  they; 
Chasing,  with  eager  hands  and  eyes, 
The  beautiful  blue  damsel-flies. 
That  fluttered  round  the  jasmine  stems, 
Like  winged  flowers  or  flying  gems  :  — 
And,  near  the  boy,  who  tired  with  play. 
Now  nestling  'mid  the  roses  lay, 
She  saw  a  wearied  man  dismount 

From  his  hot  steed,  and  on  the  brink 
Of  a  small  imaret's  rustic  fount 

Impatient  fling  him  down  to  drink. 
Then  swift  his  haggard  brow  he  turned 

To  the  fair  child,  who  fearless  sat, 
Though  never  yet  hath  day-beam  burned 

Upon  a  brow  more  fierce  than  that.  — 
Sullenly  fierce  —  a  mixture  dire. 
Like  thunder-clouds,  of  gloom  and  fire! 


A..  D.  1779-18o2.  THOMAS   MOORE.  353 

In  which  the  Peri's  eye  could  read 
Dark  tales  of  many  a  ruthless  deed ; 
The  ruined  maid  -^  the  shrine  profaned  — 
Oaths  broken  —  and  the  threshold  stained 
With  blood  of  guests  !  —  //^ere  written,  all. 
Black  as  the  damning  drops  that  fall 
From  the  denouncing  Angel's  pen, 
Ere  Mercy  weeps  them  out  again  ! 

Yet  tranquil  now  that  man  of  crime, 
(As  if  the  balmy  evening  time 
Softened  his  spirit)  looked  and  lay, 
Watching  the  rosy  infant's  play;  — 
Though  still,  whene'er  his  eye  by  chance 
Fell  on  the  boy's,  its  lurid  glance 

Met  that  unclouded,  joyous  gaze. 
As  torches,  that  have  burnt  all  night 
Through  some  impure  and  godless  rite. 

Encounter  morning's  glorious  rays. 

But  hark !  the  vesper  call  to  prayer, 

As  slow  the  orb  of  daylight  sets, 
Is  rising  sweetly  on  the  air. 

From  Syria's  thousand  minarets! 
The  boy  has  started  from  the  bed 
Of  flowers,  where  he  had  laid  his  head, 
And  down  upon  the  fragrant  sod 

Kneels,  with  his  forehead  to  the  south 
Lisping  the  eternal  naine  of  God 

From  purity's  own  cherub  mouth, 
And  looking,  while  his  hands  and  eyes 
Are  lifted  to  the  glowing  skies, 
Like  a  stray  babe  of  Paradise, 
Just  lighted  on  that  flowery  plain. 
And  seeking  for  its  home  again ! 
O,  'twas  a  sight — that  Heaven  —  that  Child  — 
A  scene,  which  might  have  well  beguiled 
E'en  haughty  Eblis  of  a  sigh 
For  glories  lost  and  peace  gone  by! 

And  how  felt  /le,  the  wretched  Man 
Reclining  there  —  while  memory  ran 
O'er  many  a  year  of  guilt  and  strife, 
Flew  o'er  the  dark  flood  of  his  life, 
Nor  found  one  sunny  resting-place, 
Nor  brought  him  back  one  branch  of  grace  I 
"  There  -was  a  time,"  he  said,  in  mild. 
Heart-humbled  tones  —  *'  thou  blessed  child! 
23 


354  THOMAS  MOORE.  Chap.  XX. 

When  young  and  haply  pure  as  thou, 

I  looked  and  prayed  like  thee  —  but  now  "  — 

He  hung  his  head  — each  nobler  aim 

And  hope  and  feeling,  which  had  slept 
From  boj'hood's  hour,  that  instant  came 

Fresh  o'er  him,  and  he  wept —  he  wept! 

Blest  tears  of  soul-felt  penitence  ! 

In  whose  benign,  redeeming  flow 
Is  felt  the  first,  the  only  sense 

Of  guiltless  joy  that  guilt  can  know. 
"There's  a  drop,"  said  the  Peri,  "  that  down  fror.a  the  moon 
Falls  through  the  withering  airs  of  June 
Upon  Egypt's  land,  of  so  healing  a  power, 
So  balmy  a  virtue,  that  e'en  in  the  hour 
That  drop  descends,  contagion  dies, 
And  health  reanimates  earth  and  skies!  — 
O,  is  it  not  thus,  thou  man  of  sin. 

The  precious  tears  of  repentance  fall? 
Though  foul  thy  fiery  plagues  within, 

One  heavenly  drop  hath  dispelled  them  all !  " 
And  now  —  behold  him  kneeling  there 
By  the  child's  side,  in  humble  prayer,  -^ 

While  the  same  sunbeam  shines  upon 
The  guilty  and  the  guiltless  one, 
And  hymns  of  joy  proclaim  through  Heaven 
The  Triumph  of  a  soul  Forgiven ! 

*Twas  when  the  golden  orb  had  set, 
While  on  their  knees  they  lingered  yet, 
There  fell  a  light,  more  lovely  far 
Than  ever  came  from  sun  or  star, 
Upon  the  tear  that,  warm  and  meek, 
Dewed  that  repentant  sinner's  cheek: 
To  mortal  eye  this  light  might  seem 
A  northern  flash  or  meteor  beam  — 
But  well  the  enraptured  Peri  knew 
'Twas  a  bright  smile  the  Angel  threw 
From  Heaven's  gate,  to  hail  that  tear 
Her  harbinger  of  glory  near ! 

"Joy,  joy  forever!  my  task  is  done  — 
The  Gates  are  passed,  and  Heaven  is  won  I 
O  !  am  I  not  happy?     I  am,  I  am  — 

To  thee,  sweet  Eden !  how  dark  and  sad 
Are  the  diamond  turrets  of  Shadukiam, 

And  the  fragrant  bowers  of  Amberabad! 

"  Farewell,  ye  odors  of  Earth,  that  die, 
Passing  away  like  a  lover's  sigh; 


A.  D.  1779-1852.  THOMAS  MOORE.  355 

My  feast  is  now  of  the  Tooba  Tree, 
Whose  scent  is  the  breath  of  Eternity! 

"  Farewell,  ye  vanishing  flowers,  that  shone 
In  my  fairy  wreath,  so  bright  and  brief,  — 
O  !  what  are  the  brightest  that  e'er  have  blown, 
To  the  lote-tree,  springing  by  Alla's  Throne, 

Whose  flowers  have  a  soul  in  every  leaf! 
Joy,  ioy  forever !  my  task  is  done  — 
The  Gates  are  passed,  and  Heaven  is  won !  " 


270,   'Tis  THE  Last  Rose  of  Summer. 

'Tis  the  last  rose  of  summer 

Left  blooming  alone ; 
All  her  lovely  companions 

Are  faded  and  gone ; 
No  flower  of  her  kindred, 

No  rose-bud,  is  nigh. 
To  reflect  back  her  blushes, 

Or  give  sigh  for  sigh. 

I'll  not  leave  thee,  thou  lone  one  I 

To  pine  on  the  stem ; 
Since  the  lovely  are  sleeping, 

Go,  sleep  thou  with  them. 
Thus  kindly  I  scatter 

Thy  leaves  o'er  the  bed. 
Where  thy  mates  of  the  garden 

Lie  scentless  and  dead. 

So  soon  may  I  follow. 

When  friendships  decay, 
And  from  Love's  shining  circle 

The  gems  drop  away! 
When  true  hearts  lie  withered. 

And  fond  ones  are  flown, 
O  !  who  would  inhabit 

This  bleak  world  alone? 


2S0»   Forget  not  the  Field. 

Porget  not  the  field  where  they  perished, 

The  truest,  the  last  of  the  brave, 
AH  gone —  and  the  bright  hope  we  cherished 

Gone  with  them,  and  quenched  in  their  gravel 


356  THOMAS  MOORE.  Chap.  XX. 

O,  could  we  from  death  but  recover 

Those  hearts  as  they  bounded  before, 
In  the  face  of  high  Heaven  to  fight  over 

That  combat  for  freedom  once  more ;  — 

Could  the  chain  for  an  instant  be  riven 

Which  Tyranny  flung  round  us  then, 
No,  'tis  not  in  Man,  nor  in  Heaven, 

To  let  Tyranny  bind  it  again  ! 

But  'tis  past  —  and,  though  blazoned  in  story 

The  name  of  our  victor  may  be. 
Accurst  is  the  march  of  that  glory 

Which  treads  o'er  the  hearts  of  the  free. 

Far  dearer  the  grave  or  the  prison, 

Illumed  by  one  patriot  name. 
Than  the  trophies  of  all,  who  have  risen 

On  Liberty's  ruins  to  fame. 


2S1»   Those  Evening  Bells. 

Those  evening  bells  !  those  evening  bells  I 
How  many  a  tale  their  music  tells. 
Of  youth,  and  home,  and  that  sweet  time 
When  last  I  heard  their  soothing  chime! 

Those  joyous  hours  are  past  away ! 
And  many  a  heart,  that  then  was  gay, 
Within  the  tomb  now  darkly  dwells, 
And  hears  no  more  those  evening  bells! 

And  so  'twill  be  when  I  am  gone ; 
That  tuneful  peal  will  still  ring  on. 
While  other  bards  shall  walk  these  dells. 
And  sing  your  praise,  sweet  evening  bells! 


2S2»   The  Turf  shall  be  my  Fragrant  Shrine. 

The  turf  shall  be  my  fragrant  shrine; 
My  temple,  Lord  !  that  arch  of  thine; 
My  censer's  breath  the  mountain  airs, 
And  silent  thoughts  my  only  prayers. 

My  choir  shall  be  the  moonlight  waves. 
When  murmuring  homeward  to  their  caves. 
Or  when  the  stillness  of  the  sea, 
E'en  more  than  music,  breathes  of  Thee  I 


A..  1).  1792-1821.     PERCY  BYSSHE   SHELLEY.  357 

I'll  seek,  by  day,  some  glade  unknown. 
All  light  and  silence,  like  thy  Throne! 
And  the  pale  stars  shall  be,  at  night, 
The  only  eyes  that  watch  my  rite. 

Thy  Heaven,  on  which  'tis  bliss  to  look, 
Shall  be  my  pure  and  shining  book, 
Where  I  shall  read,  in  words  of  flame. 
The  glories  of  thy  wondrous  name. 

I'll  read  thy  anger  in  the  rack 

That  clouds  awhile  the  day-beam's  track; 

Thy  mercy  in  the  azure  hue 

Of  sunny  brightness  breaking  through  I 

There's  nothing  bright,  above,  below, 
From  flowers  that  bloom  to  stars  that  glow, 
But  in  its  light  my  soul  can  see 
^  Some  feature  of  thy  Deity  ! 

There's  nothing  dark,  below,  above, 
But  in  its  gloom  I  trace  thy  Love, 
And  meekly  wait  that  moment,  when 
Thy  touch  shall  turn  all  bright  again  I 


Percy  Bysshe  Shelley.     1792-1821.    (Manual,  pp.  411- 

415-) 
2S3»   From  "  Ode  to  a  Skylark." 

Hail  to  thee,  blithe  spirit! 

Bird  thou  never  wert. 
That  from  heaven,  or  near  it, 

Pourest  thy  full  heart 
In  profuse  strains  of  unpremeditated  art. 

Higher  still  and  higher. 

From  the  earth  thou  springest 
Like  a  cloud  of  fire ; 

The  blue  deep  thou  wingest, 
And  singing  still  dost  soar,  and  soaring  ever,  singest. 

In  the  golden  lightning 

Of  the  sunken  sun, 
O'er  which  clouds  are  bright'ning, 
Thou  dost  float  and  run, 
Like  an  unbodied  joy  whose  race  is  just  begun. 


358  PERCY  BYSSEE  SHELLEY.  Chap.  XX. 

The  pale  purple  even 

Melts  around  thy  flight; 
Like  a  star  of  heaven, 

In  the  broad  daj'light 
Thou  art  unseen,  but  yet  I  hear  thy  shrill  delight. 

Keen  are  the  arrows 

Of  that  silver  sphere, 
Whose  intense  lamp  narrows 

In  the  white  dawn  clear, 
Until  we  hardly  see,  we  feel  that  it  is  there. 

All  the  earth  and  air 

With  thy  voice  is  loud, 
As,  when  night  is  bare. 
From  one  lonely  cloud 
The  moon  rains  out  her  beams,  and  heaven  is  overflowed. 

What  thou  art  we  know  not; 

What  is  most  like  thee? 
From  rainbow  clouds  there  flow  not 

Drops  so  bright  to  see, 
As  from  thy  presence  showers  a  rain  of  melody. 

Like  a  poet  hidden 

In  the  light  of  thought. 
Singing  hymns  unbidden, 
Till  the  world  is  wrought 
To  sympathy  with  hopes  and  fears  it  heeded  not. 
*        *         *         *         ^t        * 


2S4,   Returning  Spring. 

Ah,  woe  is  me !     Winter  is  come  and  gone, 
But  grief  returns  with  the  revolving  year; 
The  airs  and  streams  renew  their  joyous  tone : 
The  ants,  the  bees,  the  swallows,  reappear; 
Fresh  leaves  and  flowers  deck  the  dead  season's  bier. 
The  loving  birds  now  pair  in  every  brake, 
And  build  their  mossy  homes  in  field  and  brere; 
And  the  green  lizard,  and  the  golden  snake, 
Like  unimprisoned  flames,  out  of  their  trance  awake. 

Through  wood  and  stream  and  field  and  hill  and  ocean, 
A  quickening  life  from  the  earth's  heart  has  burst, 
As  it  has  ever  done,  with  change  and  motion, 
From  the  great  morning  of  the  world  when  fi-st 


A..  D.  1792-1821.      PERCY  BYSSIIE   SHELLEY.  359 

God  dawned  on  chaos;  in  its  stream  immersed, 
The  lamps  of  heaven  flash  with  a  softer  light; 
All  baser  things  pant  with  life's  sacred  thirst, 
Diffuse  themselves ;   and  spend  in  love's  delight 
The  beauty  and  the  joy  of  their  renewed  might. 


285*   The  Plain  of  Lombardy. 

Beneath  is  spread,  like  a  green  sea, 
The  waveless  plain  of  Lombardy, 
Bounded  by  the  vaporous  air, 
Islanded  by  cities  fair; 
Underneath  day's  azure  eyes, 
Ocean's  nursling,  Venice,  lies,  — 
A  peopled  labyrinth  of  walls, 
Amphitrite's  destined  halls, 
Which  her  hoary  sire  now  paves 
With  his  blue  and  beaming  waves. 
Lo  !  the  sun  upsprings  behind. 
Broad,  red,  radiant,  half-reclined 
On  the  level  quivering  line 
Of  the  waters  crystalline; 
And  before  that  chasm  of  light, 
As  within  a  furnace  bright. 
Column,  tower,  and  dome,  and  spire, 
Shine  like  obelisks  of  fire, 
Pointing  with  inconstant  motion 
From  the  altar  of  dark  ocean 
To  the  sapphire-tinted  skies  • 
As  the  flames  of  sacrifice 
From  the  marble  shrines  did  rise, 
As  to  pierce  the  dome  of  gold 
Where  Apollo  spoke  of  old. 
Sun-girt  City!  thou  hast  been 
Ocean's  child,  and  then  his  queen. 

•C  •?*  I*  1*  •!*  ▼  ^1 

Noon  descends  around  me  now ; 
'Tis  the  noon  of  autumn's  glow, 
When  a  soft  and  purple  mist, 
Like  a  vaporous  amethyst, 
Or  an  air-dissolved  star, 
Mingling  light  and  fragrance,  far 
From  the  curved  horizon's  bound 
To  the  point  of  heaven's  profoundc 
Fills  the  overflowing  sky; 
And  the  plains  that  silent  lie 


860  '  JOHN  KEATS.  Chaf  XX 

Underneath  ;  the  leaves  unsodden, 
Where  the  infant  frost  has  troddea 
With  his  morning-winged  feet, 
Whose  bright  print  is  gleaming  yet; 
And  the  red  and  golden  vines, 
Piercing  with  their  trellised  lines 
The  rough  dark  skirted  wilderness; 
The  dim  and  bladed  grass,  no  less. 
Pointing  from  this  hoary  tower 
In  the  windless  air;  the  flower 
Glimmering  at  my  feet;  the  line 
Of  the  olive-sandalled  Apennine, 
In  the  south  dimly  islanded ; 
And  the  Alps,  whose  snows  are  spread 
High  between  the  clouds  and  sun; 
And  of  living  things  each  one; 
And  my  spirit,  which  so  long 
Darkened  this  swift  stream  of  song, 
Interpenetrated  lie 
By  the  glory  of  the  sky ; 
Be  it  love,  light,  harmony, 
Odor,  or  the  soul  of  all, 
Which  from  heaven  like  dew  doth  fall. 
Or  the  mind  which  feeds  this  verse 
Peopling  the  lone  universe. 


John  Keats,     1796-1821.     (Manual,  p.  415) 
2S0»   From  "  Ode  to  Autumn." 

Who  hath  not  seen  thee  oft  amid  thy  store? 

Sometimes  whoever  seeks  abroad  may  find 
Thee  sitting  careless  on  a  granary  floor. 

Thy  hair  soft-lifted  by  the  winnowing  wind; 
Or  on  a  half-reaped  furrow  sound  asleep. 

Drowsed  with  the  fume  of  poppies,  while  thy  hook 
Spares  the  next  swath  and  all  its  twined  flowers : 
And  sometimes  like  a  gleaner  thou  dost  keep 

Steady  thy  laden  head  across  a  brook; 

Or  by  a  cider-press,  with  patient  look, 

Thou  watchest  the  last  oozings,  hours  by  hours. 

Where  are  the  songs  of  Spring?    Ay,  where  are  theyf 
Think  not  of  them,  thou  hast  thy  music  too,  — 

While  barred  clouds  bloom  the  soft  dying  day, 
And  touch  the  stubble-plains  with  rosy  hue ; 


A.  D.  1796-1821.  JOHN  KEATS.  361 

Then  in  a  wailful  choir  the  small  gnats  mourn 
Among  the  river  shallows,  borne  aloft, 

Or  sinking,  as  the  light  wind  lives  or  dies; 
And  full-grown  lambs  loud  bleat  from  hilly  bourn; 
Hedge-crickets  sing;  and  now,  with  treble  soft. 
The  redbreast  whistles  from  a  garden-croft; 
And  gathering  swallows  twitter  in  the  skies. 


287,   From  "  Hyperion." 

There  is  a  roaring  in  the  bleak-grown  pines 

When  Winter  lifts  his  voice;  there  is  a  noise 

Among  immortals  when  a  God  gives  sign, 

With  hushing  finger,  how  he  means  to  load 

His  tongue  with  the  full  weight  of  utterless  thought. 

With  thunder,  and  with  nmsic,  and  with  pomp  : 

Such  noise  is  like  the  roar  of  bleak-grown  pines; 

Which,  when  it  ceases  in  this  mountained  world, 

No  other  sound  succeeds ;  but  ceasing  here, 

Among  these  fallen,  Saturn's  voice  therefrom 

Grew  up  like  organ,  that  begins  anew 

Its  strain,  when  other  harmonies,  stopped  short. 

Leave  the  dinned  air  vibrating  silverlj. 

Thus  grew  it  up  —  "  No1>in  my  own  sad  breast, 

Which  is  its  own  great  judge  and  searcher  out. 

Can  I  find  reason  why  ye  should  be  thus  : 

Not  in  the  legends  of  the  first  of  days, 

Studied  from  that  old  spirit-leaved  book 

Which  starry  Uranus  with  finger  bright 

Saved  from  the  shores  of  darkness,  when  the  waves 

Low-ebbed  still  hid  it  up  in  shallow  gloom ;  — 

And  the  which  book  ye  know  I  ever  kept 

For  my  firm-based  footstool :  —  Ah,  infirm! 

Not  there,  nor  in  sign,  symbol,  or  portent 

Of  element,  earth,  water,  air,  and  fire,  — 

At  war,  at  peace,  or  inter-quarrelling 

One  against  one,  or  two,  or  three,  or  all 

Each  several  one  against  the  other  three, 

As  fire  with  air  loud  Avarring  when  rain-floods 

Drown  both,  and  press  them  both  against  earth's  face, 

Where,  finding  sulphur,  a  quadruple  wrath 

Unhinges  the  poor  world :  —  not  in  that  strife, 

Wherefrom  I  take  strange  lore,  and  read  it  deep, 

Can  I  find  reason  why  ye  should  be  thus  : 

No,  nowhere  can  unriddle,  though  I  search, 

And  pore  on  Nature's  universal  scroll 

Even  to  swooning,  why  ye,  Divinities, 


362  JOHN  KEATS.  CiLiP.  XX. 

The  first-born  of  all  shaped  and  palpable  Gods, 

Should  cower  beneath  what,  in  comparison, 

Is  untremendous  might.     Yet  je  are  here, 

O'erwhelmed,  and  spurned,  and  battered,  ye  are  here! 

O  Titans,  shall  I  say  '  Arise ! '  —  Ye  groan  : 

Shall  I  say  '  Crouch ! '  —  Ye  groan.     What  can  I  then? 

0  Heaven  wide!  O  unseen  parent  dear! 
What  can  I.'    Tell  me,  all  ye  brethren  Gpds, 
How  we  can  war,  how  engine  our  great  wrath ! 
O,  speak  your  counsel  now,  for  Saturn's  ear 

Is  all  a-hungered.     Thou,  Oceanus, 
Ponderest  high  and  deep ;  and  in  thy  face 

1  see,  astonied,  that  severe  content 

Which  comes  of  thought  and  musing:  give  us  help!" 


288,   Ode  on  a  Grecian  Urn. 

Thou  still  unravished  bride  of  quietness. 

Thou  foster-child  of  silence  and  slow  time. 
Sylvan  historian,  who  canst  thus  express 

A  flowery  tale  more  sweetly  than  our  rhyme  : 
What  leaf-fringed  legend  haunts  about  thy  shape 

Of  deities  or  mortals,  or  of  both. 
In  Tempe  or  the  dales  of  Arcady? 

What  men  or  gods  are  these.''     What  maidens  loath' 
What  mad  pursuit.''     What  struggle  to  escape.'' 

What  pipes  and  timbrels?    What  wild  ecstasy? 

Heard  melodies  are  sweet,  but  those  unheard 

Are  sweeter ;  therefore,  ye  soft  pipes,  play  on ; 
Not  to  the  sensual  ear,  but,  more  endeared, 

Pipe  to  the  spirit  ditties  of  no  tone; 
Fair  youth,  beneath  the  trees,  thou  canst  not  leave 

Thy  song,  nor  ever  can  those  trees  be  bare; 
Bold  Lover,  never,  never  canst  thou  kiss, 
Though  winning  near  the  goal  —  yet,  do  not  grieve; 

She  cannot  fade,  though  thou  hast  not  thy  bliss, 
Forever  wilt  thou  love,  and  she  be  fair! 

Ah,  happy,  happy  boughs  !  that  cannot  shed 

Your  leaves,  nor  ever  bid  the  Spring  adieu; 
And,  happy  melodist,  unwearied, 

Forever  piping  songs  forever  new; 
More  happy  love!  more  happy,  happy  lovel 

Forever  warm  and  still  to  be  enjoyed. 
Forever  panting,  and  forever  young; 
All  breathing  human  passion  far  above. 

That  leaves  a  heart  high-sorrowful  and  cloyed^ 
A  burning  forehead,  and  a  parching  tongue. 


A.  D.  1777-1844.  THOMAS   CAMPBELL.  363 

From  **Endymion." 
2S0»   Moonlight. 

Eterne  Apollo  !  that  thy  sister  fair 

Is  of  all  these  the  gentlier-mightiest. 

When  thj  gold  breath  is  misting  in  the  west, 

She  unobserved  steals  unto  her  throne, 

And  there  she  sits  most  meek  and  most  alone; 

As  if  she  had  not  pomp  subservient; 

As  if  thine  eye,  high  Poet!  was  not  bent 

Towards  her  with  the  muses  in  thine  heart; 

As  if  the  ministering  stars  kept  not  apart, 

Waiting  for  silver-footed  messages. 

O  Moon !  the  oldest  shades  'mong  oldest  trees 

Feel  palpitations  when  thou  lookest  in  : 

O  Moon !  old  boughs  lisp  forth  a  holier  din 

The  while  they  feel  thine  airy  fellowship. 

Thou  dost  bless  everywhere,  with  silver  lip 

Kissing  dead  things  to  life.     The  sleeping  kine, 

Couched  in  thy  brightness,  dream  of  fields  divine: 

Innumerable  mountains  rise,  and  rise, 

Ambitious  for  the  hallowing  of  thine  eyes ; 

And  yet  thy  benediction  passeth  not 

One  obscure  hiding-place,  one  little  spot 

Where  pleasure  may  be  sent :  the  nested  wren 

Has  thy  fair  face  within  its  tranquil  ken, 

And  from  beneath  a  sheltering  ivy  leaf 

Takes  glimpses  of  thee ;  thou  art  a  relief 

To  the  poor  patient  oyster,  where  it  sleeps 

Within  its  pearly  house.  —  The  mighty  deeps, 

The  monstrous  sea  is  thine  —  the  myriad  sea  I 

O  Moon  !  far  spooming  ocean  bows  to  thee, 

And  Tellus  feels  her  forehead's  cumbrous  load. 


Thomas  Campbell,     i  777-1 844.     (Manual,  p.  416.) 

From  "The  Pleasures  of  Hope." 

200 •    Hope  beyond  the  Grave. 

Unfading  Hope  !  when  life's  last  embers  burn, 
When  soul  to  soul,  and  dust  to  dust  return ! 
Heaven  to  thy  charge  resigns  the  awful  hour! 
O,  then,  thy  kingdom  comes!     Immortal  Power! 
What  though  each  spark  of  earth-born  rapture  fly 
The  quivering  lip,  pale  cheek,  and  closing  eye! 


364  THOMAS   CAMPBELL.  Chap.  XX 

Bright  to  the  soul  thy  seraph  hands  convey 
The  morning  dream  of  life's  eternal  day  — 
Then,  then,  the  triumph  and  the  trance  begin, 
And  all  the  phoenix  spirit  burns  within! 

O,  deep-enchanting  prelude  to  repose, 
The  dawn  of  bliss,  the  twilight  of  our  woes  I 
Yet  half  I  hear  the  panting  spirit  sigh. 
It  is  a  dread  and  awful  thing  to  die ! 
Mysterious  worlds,  untravelled  by  the  sun, 
Where  Time's  far  wandering  tide  has  never  run, 
From  your  unfathomed  shades  and  viewless  spheres 
A  warning  comes,  unheard  by  other  ears. 
'Tis  Heaven's  commanding  trumpet,  long  and  loud, 
Like  Sinai's  thunder,  pealing  from  the  cloud! 
While  Nature  hears,  with  terror-mingled  trust, 
The  shock  that  hurls  her  fabric  to  the  dust; 
And,  like  the  trembling  Hebrew,  when  he  trod 
The  roaring  waves,  and  called  upon  his  God, 
With  mortal  terrors  clouds  immortal  bliss. 
And  shrieks  and  hovers  o'er  the  dark  abyss  1 

Daughter  of  Faith  !  awake,  arise,  illume 
The  dread  unknown,  the  chaos  of  the  tomb ; 
Melt  and  dispel,  ye  specti-e-doubts,  that  roll 
Cimmerian  darkness  o'er  the  parting  soul! 
Fly,  like  the  moon-eyed  herald  of  Dismay, 
Chased  on  his  night-steed  by  the  star  of  day! 
The  strife  is  o'er  —  the  pangs  of  Nature  close. 
And  life's  last  rapture  triumphs  o'er  her  woes. 
Hark!  as  the  spirit  eyes,  with  eagle  gaze, 
The  noon  of  Heaven  undazzled  by  the  blaze; 
On  heavenly  winds  that  waft  her  to  the  sky. 
Float  the  sweet  tones  of  star-born  melody; 
Wild  as  that  hallowed  anthem  sent  to  hail 
Bethlehem's  shepherds  in  the  lonely  vale. 
When  Jordan  hushed  his  waves,  and  midnight  still 
Watched  on  the  holy  towers  of  Zion  hill ! 


20 10   The  Soldier's  Dream. 

Our  bugles  sang  truce  —  for  the  night-cloud  had  lowered, 
And  the  sentinel  stars  set  their  watch  in  the  sky: 

And  thousands  had  sunk  on  the  ground  overpowered, 
The  weary  to  sleep,  and  the  wounded  to  die. 

When  reposing  that  night  on  my  pallet  of  straw, 
By  the  wolf-scaring  fagot  that  guarded  the  slain, 


A.  D.  1777-1844.  THOMAS   CAMPBELL,  365 

At  the  dead  of  the  night  a  sweet  vision  I  saw. 
And  thrice  ere  the  morning  I  dreamt  it  again. 

Methought  from  the  battle-field's  dreadful  array, 

Far,  far  I  had  roamed  on  a  desolate  track; 
'Twas  Autumn  —  and  sunshine  arose  on  the  way 

To  the  home  of  my  fathers,  that  welcomed  me  back. 

I  flew  to  the  pleasant  fields  traversed  so  oft 

In  life's  morning  march,  when  my  bosom  was  young; 

I  heard  my  own  mountain-goats  bleating  aloft. 
And  knew  the  sweet  strain  that  the  corn-reapers  sung. 

Then  pledged  we  the  wine-cup,  and  fondly  I  swore 

From  my  home  and  my  weeping  friends  never  to  part; 

My  little  ones  kissed  me  a  thousand  times  o'er. 
And  my  wife  sobbed  aloud  in  her  fulness  of  heart. 

Stay,  stay  with  us  —  rest,  thou  art  weary  and  worn ; 

And  fain  was  their  war-broken  soldier  to  stay: 
But  sorrow  returned  with  the  dawning  of  morn, 

And  the  voice  in  my  dreaming  ear  melted  away. 


202»     Ye  Mariners  of  England: 

A  Naval  Ode. 

Ye  Mariners  of  England ! 

That  guard  our  native  seas  ; 

Whose  flag  has  braved,  a  thousand  years, 

The  battle  and  the  breeze! 

Your  glorious  standard  launch  again 

To  match  another  foe  1 

And  sweep  through  the  deep. 

While  the  stormy  tempests  blow; 

While  the  battle  rages  loud  and  long. 

And  the  stormy  tempests  blow. 

The  spirits  of  your  fathers 

Shall  start  from  every  wave  !  — 

For  the  deck  it  was  their  field  of  fame, 

And  Ocean  was  their  grave  : 

Where  Blake  and  mighty  Nelson  fell, 

Your  manly  hearts  shall  glow. 

As  ye  sweep  through  the  deep. 

While  the  stormy  tempests  blow; 

While  the  battle  rages  loud  and  long. 

And  the  stormj'  tempests  blow. 


366  THOMAS   CAMPBELL.  Chap.  XX. 

Britannia  needs  no  bulwark, 

No  towers  along  the  steep ; 

Her  march  is  o'er  the  mountain  waves, 

Her  home  is  on  the  deep. 

With  thunders  from  her  native  oak, 

She  quells  the  floods  below,  — 

As  they  roar  on  the  shore, 

When  the  stormy  tempests  blow : 

When  the  battle  rages  loud  and  long, 

And  the  stormy  tempests  blow. 

The  meteor  flag  of  England 

Shall  yet  terrific  burn  ; 

Till  danger's  troubled  night  depart. 

And  the  star  of  peace  return. 

Then,  then,  ye  ocean-warriors! 

Our  song  and  feast  shall  flow 

To  the  fame  of  your  name, 

When  the  storm  has  ceased  to  blow; 

When  the  fiery  fight  is  heard  no  more. 

And  the  storm  has  ceased  to  blow. 


203*     HOHENLINDEN. 

On  Linden,  when  the  sun  was  low. 
All  bloodless  lay  th'  untrodden  snow, 
And  dark  as  winter  was  the  flow 
Of  Iser,  rolling  rapidly. 

But  Linden  saw  another  sight. 
When  the  drum  beat,  at  dead  of  night, 
Commanding  fires  of  death  to  light 
The  darkness  of  her  scenery. 

By  torch  and  trumpet  fast  arrayed, 
Each  horseman  drew  his  battle-blade, 
And  furious  every  charger  neighed, 
To  join  the  dreadful  revelry. 

Then  shook  the  hills  with  thunder  riven. 
Then  rushed  the  steed  to  battle  driven. 
And  louder  than  the  bolts  of  heaven. 
Far  flashed  the  red  artillery. 

But  redder  yet  that  light  shall  glow 
On  Linden's  hills  of  stained  snow, 
And  bloodier  yet  the  torrent  flow 
Of  Iser,  rolling  rapidly. 


A.  D.  1777-1844.  THOMAS   CAMPBELL,  367 

'Tis  morn,  but  scarce  yon  level  sun 
Can  pierce  the  war-clouds,  rolling  dun, 
Where  furious  Frank  and  fiery  Hun 
Shout  in  their  sulph'rous  canopy. 

The  combat  deepens.     On,  ye  brave, 
Who  rush  to  glory,  or  the  grave ! 
Wave,  Munich  !  all  thy  banners  wave, 
And  charge  with  all  thy  chivalry ! 

Few,  few,  shall  part  where  many  meet  I 
The  snow  shall  be  their  winding-sheet. 
And  everj'  turf  beneath  their  feet 
Shall  be  a  soldier's  sepulchre. 


368  WILLIAM  WORBSWOBTH.  Chap.  XXI 


CHAPTER  XXI. 

WORDSWORTH,    COLERIDGE,    SOUTHEY,    AND    OTHER 

MODERN    POETS. 


William  Wordsworth.   1770-1850.    (Manual,  pp. 420-424.) 

From  "The  Excursion." 

204*   The  Greek  Mythology. 

In  that  fair  clime,  the  lonely  herdsman,  stretched 

On  the  soft  grass,  through  half  a  summer's  day, 

"With  music  lulled  his  indolent  repose  : 

And,  in  some  fit  of  weariness,  if  he, 

When  his  own  breath  was  silent,  chanced  to  hear 

A  distant  strain,  far  sweeter  than  the  sounds 

Which  his  poor  skill  could  make,  his  fancy  fetched, 

Even  from  the  blazing  chariot  of  the  sun, 

A  beardless  youth,'  who  touched  a  golden  lute, 

And  filled  th'  illumined  groves  with  ravishment. 

The  nightly  hunter,  lifting  up  his  eyes 

Towards  the  crescent  moon,  with  grateful  heart 

Called  on  the  lovely  wanderer  who  bestowed 

That  timely  light,  to  share  his  joyous  sport: 

And  hence,  a  beaming  goddess  ^  with  her  nymphs, 

Across  the  lawn  and  through  the  darksome  grove 

(Not  unaccompanied  with  tuneful  notes, 

By  echo  multiplied  from  rock  or  cave). 

Swept  in  the  storm  of  chase,  as  moon  and  stars 

Glance  rapidly  along  the  clouded  heaven, 

When  winds  are  blowing  strong.     The  traveller  slaked 

His  thirst  from  rill  or  gushing  fount,  and  thanked 

The  Naiad. ^  —  Sunbeams,  upon  distant  hills 

Gliding  apace,  with  shadows  in  their  train, 

Might,  with  small  help  from  fancy,  be  transformed 

Into  fleet  Oreads  sporting  visibly. 

The  Zephyrs,  fanning,  as  they  passed,  their  wings, 

Lacked  not,  for  love,  fair  objects,  whom  they  wooed 

With  gentle  whisper.     Withered  boughs  grotesque, 

1  Phoebus  Apollo.  2  Diana. 

S  Jfaiad»,  the  nymphs  of  the  springs ;  Oreads,  those  of  the  mountaius. 


A.  D.  1770-1850.      WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH.  369 

Stripped  of  their  leaves  and  twigs  by  hoary  age, 
From  depth  of  shaggy  covert  peeping  forth, 
in  the  low  vale,  or  on  steep  mountain-side; 
And  sometimes  intermixed  with  stirring  horns 
Of  the  live  deer,  or  goat's  depending  beard,  — 
These  were  the  lurking  Satyrs,  a  wild  brood 
Of  gamesome  deities;  or  Pan  himself. 
The  simple  shepherd's  awe-inspiring  god! 


20S,   TiNTERN  Abbey.' 

Five  years  have  passed ;  five  summers  with  the  length 

Of  five  long  winters ;  and  again  I  hear 

These  waters,  rolling  from  their  mountain  springs 

With  a  sweet  inland  murmur.     Once  again 

Do  I  behold  these  steep  and  lofty  cliffs, 

Which  on  a  wild  secluded  scene  impress 

Thoughts  of  more  deep  seclusion,  and  connect 

The  landscape  with  the  quiet  of  the  sky. 

The  day  is  come  when  I  again  repose 

Here,  under  this  dark  sycamore,  and  view 

These  plots  of  cottage  ground,  these  orchard  tufts, 

Which,  at  this  season,  with  their  unripe  fruits, 

Are  clad  in  one  green  hue,  and  lose  themselves 

Among  the  woods  and  copses,  nor  disturb 

The  wild  green  landscape.     Once  again  I  see 

These  hedgerows,  hardly  hedgerows,  little  lines 

Of  sportive  wood  run  wild ;  these  pastoial  farms 

Green  to  the  very  door;  and  wreaths  of  smoke 

Sent  up  in  silence  from  among  the  trees. 

With  some  uncertain  notice,  as  might  seem, 

Of  vagrant  dwellers  in  the  houseless  woods. 

Or  of  some  hermit's  cave,  where,  by  his  fire, 

The  hermit  sits  alone. 

Though  absent  long, 
These  forms  of  beauty  have  not  been  to  me 
As  is  a  landscape  to  a  blind  man's  eye  : 
But  oft,  in  lonely  rooms,  and  'mid  the  din 
Of  towns  and  cities,  I  have  owed  to  them, 
In  hours  of  weariness,  sensations  sweet. 
Felt  in  the  blood,  and  felt  along  the  heart. 
And  passing  even  into  m^-  purer  mind 

1  This  abbey  was  founded  by  the  Cistercian  monks,  in  1131.  It  is  now  a  celebrated  ruia  or  the  west 
bank  of  the  River  Wye,  which  forma  the  boundary  between  the  counties  of  Monmouth  anvV  wloucestcr, 
England.  It  is  about  five  miles  above  the  junction  ot  the  Wye  and  Severn,  and  eighteen  tciica  north  of 
Bristol. 

24 


370  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH.  Chap.  XXL 

With  tranquil  restoration  —  feelings,  too, 

Of  unremembered  pleasure;   such,  perhaps, 

As  maj  have  had  no  trivial  influence 

On  that  best  portion  of  a  good  man's  life, 

His  little,  nameless,  unremembered  acts 

Of  kindness  and  of  love.     Nor  less,  I  trust, 

To  them  I  may  have  owed  another  gift, 

Of  aspect  more  sublime;  that  blessed  mood 

In  which  the  burden  of  the  mystery, 

In  which  the  heavy  and  the  weary  weight 

Of  all  this  unintelligible  world 

Is  lightened ;  that  serene  and  blessed  mood 

In  which  the  affections  gently  lead  us  on, 

Until  the  breath  of  this  corporeal  frame, 

And  even  the  motion  of  our  human  blood 

Almost  suspended,  we  are  laid  asleep 

In  body,  and  become  a  living  soul ; 

While  with  an  eye  made  quiet  by  the  power 

Of  harmony  and  the  deep  power  of  joy, 

We  see  into  the  life  of  things. 

*  >|c  4c  *  Mt  *  * 

For  I  have  learned 
To  look  on  nature,  not  as  in  the  hour 
Of  thoughtless  youth,  but  hearing  oftentimes 
The  still  sad  music  of  humanity. 
Nor  harsh,  nor  grating,  though  of  ample  power 
To  chasten  and  subdue.     And  I  have  felt 
A  presence  that  disturbs  me  with  the  joy 
Of  elevated  thoughts  ;  a  sense  sublime 
Of  something  far  more  deeply  interfused, 
Whose  dwelling  is  the  light  of  setting  suns. 
And  the  round  ocean,  and  the  living  air, 
And  the  blue  sky,  and  in  the  mind  of  man; 
A  motion  and  a  spirit  that  impels 
All  thinking  things,  all  objects  of  all  thought, 
And  rolls  through  all  things.     Therefore  am  I  still 
A  lover  of  the  meadows  and  the  woods 
And  mountains,  and  of  all  that  we  behold 
From  this  green  earth  :  of  all  the  mighty  world 
Of  eye  and  ear,  both  what  they  half  create 
And  what  perceive;  well  pleased  to  recognize 
In  nature,  and  the  language  of  the  sense. 
The  anchor  of  my  purest  thoughts,  the  nurse, 
The  guide,  the  guardian  of  my  heart,  and  soul 
Of  all  my  moral  being. 

Nor,  perchance. 
If  I  were  not  thus  taught,  should  I  the  more 
Suffer  my  genial  spirits  to  decay  : 


A.  D.  1770-1850.      WILLIAM   WORDSWORTH,  S7l 

For  thou  art  with  me  here,  upon  the  banks 
Of  this  fair  river;   thou,  my  dearest  friend, 
My  dear,  dear  friend,  and  in  thy  voice  I  catch 
The  language  of  my  former  heart,  and  read 
My  former  pleasures  in  the  shooting  lights 
Of  thy  wild  eyes.     O  !  yet  a  little  while 
May  I  behold  in  thee  what  I  was  once, 
Mv  dear,  dear  sister!     And  this  prayer  I  make. 
Knowing  that  nature  never  did  betray 
\  The  heart  that  loved  her;  'tis  her  privilege, 

Through  all  tlie  years  of  this  our  life  to  lead, 
From  joy  to  joy;  for  she  can  so  inform 
The  mind  that  is  within  us,  so  impress 
With  quietness  and  beauty,  and  so  feed 
With  lofty  thoughts,  that  neither  evil  tongues, 
Rash  judgments,  nor  the  sneers  of  selfish  men^ 
Nor  greetings  where  no  kindness  is,  nor  all 
The  dreary  intercourse  of  daily  life. 
Shall  e'er  prevail  against  us,  or  disturb 
Our  cheerful  faith  that  all  which  we  behold 
Is  full  of  blessings.     Therefore  let  the  moon 
Shine  on  thee  in  thy  solitary  walk! 
And  let  the  misty  mountain  winds  be  free 
To  blow  against  thee;  and  in  after  years. 
When  these  wild  ecstasies  shall  be  matured 
Into  a  sober  pleasure,  wheri  thy  mind 
Shall  be  a  mansion  for  all  lovely  forms, 
Thy  memory  be  as  a  dwelling-place 
For  all  sweet  sounds  and  harmonies  ;  O  !  then, 
If  solitude,  or  fear,  or  pain,  or  grief, 
Should  be  thy  portion,  with  what  healing  thoughts 
Of  tender  joy  wilt  thou  remember  me. 
And  these  my  exhortations!     Nor,  perchance, 
If  I  should  be  where  I  no  more  can  hear 
Thy  voice,  nor  catch  from  thy  wild  eyes  these  gleams 
Of  past  existence,  wilt  thou  then  forget 
That  on  the  banks  of  this  delightful  stream 
We  stood  together;  and  that  I,  so  long 
A  worshipper  of  nature,  hither  came. 
Unwearied  in  that  service ;  rather  say 
With  warmer  love,  O  !  with  far  deeper  zeal 
Of  holier  love.     Nor  wilt  thou  then  forget, 
That  after  many  wanderings,  many  years 
Of  absence,  these  steep  woods  and  lofty  cliffs, 
And  this  green  pastoral  landscape,  were  to  me 
More  dear,  both  for  themselves  and  for  thy  sake. 


372  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH.  Chap.  XXI. 


200,   To  A  Skylark. 

Up  with  me!  up  with  me  into  the  clouds! 

For  thy  song,  Lark,  is  strong; 
Up  with  me,  up  with  me  into  the  clouds  I 

Singing,  singing. 
With  clouds  and  skj  about  thee  ringing. 

Lift  me,  guide  me  till  I  find 
That  spot  which  seems  so  to  thy  mind! 

I  have  walked  through  wildernesses  drearj. 

And  to-daj  my  heart  is  wearv; 

Had  I  now  the  wings  of  a  Faery, 

Up  to  thee  would  I  fly. 

There's  madness  about  thee,  and  joy  divine 

In  that  song  of  thine; 
Lift  me,  guide  me  high  and  high 
To  thy  banqueting-place  in  the  sky. 

Joyous  as  morning. 
Thou  art  laughing  and  scorning; 
Thou  hast  a  nest  for  thy  love  and  thj'  rest. 
And,  though  little  troubled  with  sloth, 
Drunken  Lark!  thou  wouldst  be  loath 
To  be  such  a  Traveller  as  L 
Happy,  happy  Liver, 

With  a  soul  as  strong  as  a  mountain  River 
Pouring  out  praise  to  the  Almighty  Giver, 
Joy  and  jollity  be  with  us  both  ! 

Alus!  my  journey,  rugged  and  uneven, 

Through  prickly  moors  or  dusty  waj^s  must  wind; 

But  hearing  thee,  or  others  of  thy  kind. 

As  full  of  gladness  and  as  free  of  heaven, 

I,  with  my  fate  contented,  will  plod  on. 

And  hope  for  higher  raptures,  when  Life's  day  is  done. 


20 1»   Portrait. 

She  was  a  phantom  of  delight 

When  first  she  gleamed  upon  my  sight; 

A  lovely  apparition,  sent 

To  be  a  moment's  ornament; 

Her  eyes  as  stars  of  twilight  fair; 

Like  twilight's,  too,  her  dusky  hair. 


A.  D.  1770-1850.      WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH.  373 

But  all  things  else  about  her  drawn 
From  Maj-time  and  the  cheerful  dawn; 
A  dancing  shape,  an  image  gay, 
To  haunt,  to  startle,  and  waylay. 

I  saw  her,  upon  nearer  view, 

A  spirit,  yet  a  woman  too ! 

Her  household  motions  light  and  free, 

And  steps  of  virgin  liberty; 

A  countenance  in  which  did  meet 

Sweet  records,  promises  as  sweet; 

A  creature  not  too  bright  or  good 

For  human  nature's  daily  food; 

For  transient  sorrows,  simple  wiles, 

Praise,  blame,  love,  kisses,  tears,  and  smiles. 

And  now  I  see  with  eye  serene 

The  very  pulse  of  the  machine; 

A  being  breathing  thoughtful  breath, 

A  traveller  'twixt  life  and  death  ; 

The  reason  firm,  the  temperate  will. 

Endurance,  foresight,  strength,  and  skill, 

A  perfect  woman,  nobly  planned. 

To  warn,  to  comfort,  and  command; 

And  yet  a  spirit  still,  and  bright 

With  something  of  an  angel  light. 


20 S.   Milton. 

Milton  !  thou  shouldst  be  living  at  this  hour; 

England  hath  need  of  thee;  she  is  a  fen 

Of  stagnant  waters;  altar,  sword,  and  pen, 
Fireside,  the  heroic  wealth  of  hall  and  bower, 
Have  forfeited  their  ancient  English  dower 

Of  inward  happiness.     We  are  selfish  men; 

O  !  raise  us  up,  return  to  us  again ; 
And  give  us  manners,  virtue,  freedom,  power. 

Thy  soul  was  like  a  star,  and  dwelt  apart; 
Thou  hadst  a  voice  whose  sound  was  like  the  sea; 
Pure  as  the  naked  heavens  —  majestic,  free, 
So  didst  thou  travel  on  life's  common  way 

In  cheerful  godliness ;  and  yet  thy  heart 
The  lowliest  duties  on  herself  did  lay. 


374  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH.  Ch^xP.  XXI 


200*    We  are  Seven. 

A  simple  child,  dear  brother  Jim, 

That  lightly  draws  its  breath, 
And  feels  its  life  in  every  limb, 

What  should  it  know  of  death? 

I  met  a  little  cottage  girl ; 

She  was  eight  years  old,  she  said; 
Her  hair  was  thick  with  many  a  curl 

That  clustered  round  her  head. 

She  had  a  rustic  woodland  air, 

And  she  was  wildly  clad; 
Her  eyes  were  fair,  and  very  fair  — 

Her  beauty  made  me  glad. 

*'  Sisters  and  brothers,  little  maid. 

How  many  may  you  be?" 
"  How  many?     Seven  in  all,"  she  said, 

And  wondering  looked  at  me. 

"And  where  are  they?     I  pray  you  tell." 

She  answered,  "Seven  are  we; 
And  two  of  us  at  Conway  dwell. 

And  two  are  gone  to  sea. 

"Two  of  us  in  the  churchyard  lie, 

My  sister  and  my  brother; 
And  in  the  churchyard  cottage,  I 

Dwell  near  them,  with  my  mother." 

"You  say  that  two  at  Conway  dwell, 

And  two  are  gone  to  sea, 
Yet  ye  are  seven  !     I  pray  you  tell, 

Sweet  maid,  how  this  may  be." 

Then  did  the  little  maid  reply, 

"Seven  boys  and  girls  are  we; 
Two  of  us  in  the  churchyard  lie, 

Beneath  the  churchyard  tree." 

"You  run  about,  my  little  maid, 

Your  limbs  they  are  alive ; 
If  two  are  in  the  churchyard  laid, 

Then  ye  are  only  five." 

"  Their  graves  are  green,  they  may  be  seen," 

The  little  maid  replied, 
"Twelve  steps  or  more  from  my  mother's  door, 

And  they  are  side  by  side. 


^.  D.  1770-1850.      WILLIAM   WORDSWORTH.  375 

*'  My  stockings  there  I  often  knit, 

My  kerchief  there  I  hem, 
And  there  upon  the  ground  I  sit  — 

I  sit  and  sing  to  them. 

*'  And  often  after  sunset,  sir, 

When  it  is  light  and  fair, 
I  take  my  little  porringer. 

And  eat  my  supper  there. 

•'  The  first  that  died  was  little  Jane ; 

In  bed  she  moaning  lay, 
Till  God  released  her  of  her  pain. 

And  then  she  went  away. 

*'  So  in  the  churchyard  she  was  laid; 

And  all  the  summer  dry, 
Together  round  her  grave  we  played  — 

My  brother  John  and  I. 

"And  when  the  ground  was  white  with  snow, 

And  I  could  run  and  slide, 
My  brother  John  was  forced  to  go  — 

And  he  lies  by  her  side." 

*'  How  many  are  you  then,"  said  I, 

"  If  they  two  are  in  heaven.'*" 
The  little  maiden  did  reply, 

"O  master!  we  are  seven." 

*'  But  they  are  dead  ;  those  two  are  dead  1 

Their  spirits  are  in  heaven  !  " 
'Twas  throwing  words  away;  for  still, 
The  little  maid  would  have  her  will 

And  said,  "  Nay,  we  are  seven  !  " 


300.    Criticism  of  Pol  try. 

With  the  young  of  both  sexes,  poetry  is,  like  love,  a  passion ;  but, 
for  much  the  greater  part  of  those  who  have  been  proud  of  its  power 
over  their  minds,  a  necessity  soon  arises  of  breaking  the  pleasing 
bondage;  or  it  relaxes  of  itself;  the  thoughts  being  occupied  in 
domestic  cares,  or  the  time  engrossed  by  business.  Poetry  then  be- 
comes only  an  occasional  recreation ;  while  to  those  whose  existence 
passes  away  in  a  course  of  fashionable  pleasure,  it  is  a  species  of 
luxurious  amusement.  In  middle  and  declining  age,  a  scattered  num- 
ber of  serious  persons  resort  to  poetry,  as  to  religion,  for  a  protection 
against  the  pressure  of  trivial  employments,  and  as  a  consolation  for 
the  afflictions  of  life.     And,  lastly,  there  are  many,  who,  having  been 


376  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH.  Chap.  XXL 

enamoured  of  this  art  in  their  youth,  have  found  leisure,  after  youth 
was  spent,  to  cultivate  general  literature,  in  which  poetry  has  con- 
tinued to  be  comprehended  as  a  study. 

Into  the  above  classes  the  readers  of  poetry  may  be  divided;  critics 
abound  in  them  all;  but  from  the  last  only  can  opinions  be  collected 
of  absolute  value,  and  worthy  to  be  depended  upon,  as  prophetic  of 
the  destiny  of  a  new  work.  The  young,  who  in  nothing  can  escape 
delusion,  are  especially  subject  to  it  in  their  intercourse  with  poetiy- 
The  cause,  not  so  obvious  as  the  fact  is  unquestionable,  is  the  same  as 
that  from  which  erroneous  judgments  in  this  art,  in  the  minds  of  men 
of  all  ages,  chiefly  proceed ;  but  upon  youth  it  operates  with  peculiar 
force.  The  appropriate  business  of  poetry  (which,  nevertheless,  if 
genuine,  is  as  permanent  as  pure  science),  her  appropriate  em- 
ployment, her  privilege  and  her  diity^  is  to  treat  of  things  not  as 
they  are^  but  as  they  appear ;  not  as  they  exist  in  themselves,  but  as 
they  seetn  to  exist  to  the  seuses  and  to  the  pass/ons.  What  a  world  of 
delusion  does  this  acknowledged  principle  prepare  for  the  inex- 
perienced !  what  temptations  to  go  astray  are  here  held  forth  for  them 
whose  thoughts  have  been  little  disciplined  by  the  understanding,  and 
whose  feelings  revolt  from  the  sway  of  reason !  When  a  juvenile 
reader  is  in  the  height  of  his  rapture  with  some  vicious  passage,  should 
experience  throw  in  doubts,  or  common  sense  suggest  suspicions,  a 
lurking  consciousness  that  the  realities  of  the  Muse  are  but  shows, 
and  that  her  liveliest  excitements  are  raised  by  transient  shocks 
of  conflicting  feeling  and  successive  assemblages  of  contradictory 
thoughts — is  ever  at  hand  to  justify  extravagance,  and  to  sanction 
absurdity.  But,  it  may  be  asked,  as  these  illusions  are  unavoidable, 
and,  no  doubt,  eminently  useful  to  the  mind  as  a  process,  what  good 
can  be  gained  by  making  observations,  the  tendency  of  which  is  to 
diminish  the  confidence  of  youth  in  its  feelings,  and  thus  to  abridge 
its  innocent  and  even  profitable  pleasures.**  The  reproach  implied  in 
the  question  could  not  be  warded  off,  if  youth  were  incapable  of  being 
delighted  with  what  is  truly  excellent;  or,  if  these  errors  always  ter- 
minated of  themselves  in  due  season.  But,  with  the  majority,  though 
their  force  be  abated,  they  continue  through  life.  Moreover,  the  fire 
of  youth  is  too  vivacious  an  element  to  be  extinguished  or  damped  by 
a  philosophical  remark;  and,  while  there  is  no  danger  that  what  has 
been  said  will  be  injurious  or  painful  to  the  ardent  and  the  confident, 
it  may  prove  beneficial  to  those  who,  being  enthusiastic,  are,  at  the 
same  time,  modest  and  ingenuous.  The  intimation  may  unite  with 
their  own  misgivings  to  regulate  their  sensibility,  and  to  bring  in, 
sooner  than  it  would  otherwise  have  arrived,  a  more  "discreet  and 
sound  judgment. 

If  it  should  excite  wonder  that  men  of  ability,  in  later  life,  whose 
understandings  have  been  rendered  acute  by  practice  in  affairs,  should 
be  so  easily  and  so  far  imposed  upon  when  they  happen  to  take  up  a 
new  work  in  verse,  this  appears  to  be  the  cause  —  that,  having  discon- 
tinued their  attention  to  poetry,  whatever  progress  may  have  been 


A.  D.  1772-1834.     SAMUEL   TAYLOR   COLERIDQE.  377 

made  in  other  departments  of  knowledge,  they  have  not,  as  to  this 
art,  advanced  i.i  true  discernment  beyond  the  age  of  youth.  If,  then, 
a  new  poem  falls  in  their  way,  whose  attractions  are  of  that  kind 
which  would  have  enraptured  them  during  the  heat  of  youth,  the 
iudgment  not  being  improved  to  a  degree  that  they  shall  be  disgusted, 
they  are  dazzled;  and  prize  and  cherish  the  faults  for  having  had 
power  to  make  the  present  time  vanish  before  them,  and  to  throw  the 
mind  back,  as  by  enchantment,  into  the  happiest  season  of  life.  As 
they  read,  powers  seem  to  be  revived,  passions  are  regenerated,  and 
pleasures  restored.  The  book  was  probably  taken  up  after  an  escape 
from  the  burden  of  business,  and  with  a  wish  to  forget  the  world, 
and  all  its  vexations  and  anxieties.  Having  obtained  this  wish,  and  so 
much  more,  it  is  natural  that  they  should  make  report  as  they  ha\e  felt. 
If  men  of  mature  age,  through  want  of  practice,  be  thus  easily 
beguiled  into  admiration  of  absurdities,  extravagances,  and  misplaced 
ornaments,  thinking  it  proper  that  their  understandings  should  enjoy 
a  holiday,  while  they  are  unbending  their  n>inds  with  verse,  it  inay 
be  expected  that  such  readers  will  resemble  their  former  selves  also  in 
strength  of  prejudice,  and  an  inaptitude  to  be  moved  by  the  unosten- 
tatious beauties  of  a  pure  style.  In  the  higher  poetry,  an  enlightened 
critic  chiefly  looks  for  a  reflection  of  the  wisdom  of  the  heart  and  the 
grandeur  of  the  imagination.  Wherever  these  appear,  simplicity 
accompanies  them;  magnificence  herself,  when  legitimate,  depending 
upon  a  simplicity  of  her  own,  to  regulate  her  ornaments.  But  it  is  a 
well-known  property  of  human  nature,  that  our  estimates  are  ever 
governed  by  comparisons,  of  which  we  are  conscious  with  various 
degrees  of  distinctness.  Is  it  not,  then,  inevitable  (confining  these 
observations  to  the  effects  of  style  merely)  that  an  eye,  accustomed  to 
the  glaring  hues  of  diction  by  which  such  readers  are  caught  and 
excited,  will  for  the  most  part  be  rather  repelled  than  attracted  by  an 
original  work,  the  coloring  of  which  is  disposed  according  to  a  pure 
and  refined  scheme  of  harmony.-*  It  is  in  the  fine  arts  as  in  the  aff"airs 
of  life  —  no  man  can  serve  (/.  e.  obey  with  zeal  and  fidelity)  two 
masters. 


Samuel  Taylor  Coleridge,     i  772-1 834.     (Manual, 

pp.  425-427.) 

301,   Genevieve. 

Maid  of  my  Love,  sweet  Genevieve  f 
In  Beauty's  light  3'ou  glide  along: 
Your  eye  is  like  the  star  of  eve. 
And  sweet  your  Voice,  as  Seraph's  song. 
Yet  not  your  heavenly  Beauty  gives 
This  heart  with  passion  soft  to  glow : 
Within  your  soul  a  Voice  there  lives  I 
It  bids  you  hear  the  tale  of  Woe. 


378  SAMUEL   TAYLOR   COLERIDGE.      Chap.  XXI. 

When  sinking  low  the  Sufferer  wan 
Beholds  no  hand  outstretched  to  save, 
Fair,  as  the  bosom  of  the  Swan 
That  rises  graceful  o'er  the  wave, 
I've  seen  your  breast  with  pity  heave, 
And  therefore  love  I  you,  sweet  Genevieve  I 


302*    Hymn  before  Sunrise  in  the  Vale  of  Chamouni. 

Hast  thou  a  charm  to  stay  the  morning  star 
In  his  steep  course?     So  long  he  seems  to  pause 
On  thy  bald  awful  head,  O  sovran  Blanc! 
The  Arve  and  Arveiron  at  thy  base 
Rave  ceaselessly ;  but  thou,  most  awful  form  I 
Risest  from  forth  thy  silent  sea  of  pines, 
How  silently!     Around  thee  and  above 
Deep  is  the  air,  and  dark,  substantial,  black, 
An  ebon  mass  :  methinks  thou  piercest  it, 
As  with  a  wedge !     But  when  I  look  again, 
It  is  thine  own  calm  home,  thy  crystal  shrine. 
Thy  habitation  from  eternity ! 

0  dread  and  silent  mount!  I  gazed  upon  thee, 
Till  thou,  still  present  to  the  bodily  sense. 

Didst  vanish  from  my  thought :  entranced  in  prayer, 

1  worshipped  the  Invisible  alone. 

Yet,  like  some  sweet  beguiling  melody, 
So  sweet,  we  know  not  we  are  listening  to  it, 
Thou,  the  mean  while,  wast  blending  with  my  thought, 
Yea,  with  my  life,  and  life's  own  secret  joy; 
Till  the  dilating  soul,  enrapt,  transfused, 
Into  the  mighty  vision  passing  —  there, 
As  in  her  natural  form,  swelled  vast  to  heaven. 

Awake,  my  soul !  not  only  passive  praise 
Thou  owest !  not  alone  these  swelling  tears, 
Mute  thanks  and  secret  ecstasy!     Awake, 
Voice  of  sweet  song !     Awake,  my  heart,  awake  I    - 
Green  vales  and  icy  cliffs,  all  join  my  hymn. 

Thou  first  and  chief,  sole  Sovran  of  the  Vale ! 
O  struggling  with  the  darkness  all  the  night, 
And  visited  all  night  by  troops  of  stars. 
Or  when  they  climb  the  sky  or  when  they  sink: 
Companion  of  the  morning-star  at  dawn. 
Thyself  earth's  rosy  star,  and  of  the  dawn 
Co-herald!  wake,  O  wake,  and  utter  praise  I 


A.  D.  1772-1834.     SAMUEL  TAYLOR  COLERIDGE,  379 

Who  sank  thy  sunless  pillars  deep  in  earth? 
Who  filled  thy  countenance  with  rosy  light? 
Who  made  thee  parent  of  perpetual  streams? 

And  you,  ye  five  wild  torrents  fiercely  glad ! 
Who  called  you  forth  from  night  and  utter  death, 
From  dark  and  icy  caverns  called  you  forth, 
Down  those  precipitous,  black,  jagged  rocks, 
P^orever  shattered,  and  the  same  forever? 
Who  gave  you  your  invulnerable  life, 
Your  strength,  your  speed,  your  fury,  and  your  jo}', 
Unceasing  thunder,  and  eternal  foam? 
And  who  commanded  (and  the  silence  came). 
Here  let  the  billows  stiffen  and  have  rest? 

Ye  ice-falls !  ye  that  from  the  mountain's  brow 
Adown  enormous  ravines  slope  amain  — 
Torrents,  methinks,  that  heard  a  mighty  voice. 
And  stopped  at  once  amid  their  maddest  plunge  I 
Motionless  torrents  !  silent  cataracts  ! 
Who  made  you  glorious  as  the  gates  of  heaven 
Beneath  the  keen  full  moon?     Who  bade  the  sun 
Clothe  you  with  rainbows?     Who,  with  living  flowers 
Of  loveliest  blue,  spread  garlands  at  your  feet? 
God !  let  the  torrents,  like  a  shout  of  nations. 
Answer!  and  let  the  ice-plains  echo,  God! 
God!  sing,  ye  meadow-streams  with  gladsome  voice! 
Ye  pine-groves,  with  your  soft  and  soul-like  sounds ' 
And  they  too  have  a  voice,  yon  piles  of  snow. 
And  in  their  perilous  fall  shall  thunder,  God ! 

Ye  living  flowers  that  skirt  the  eternal  frost! 
Ye  wild  goats  sporting  round  the  eagle's  nest! 
Ye  eagles,  playmates  of  the  mountain  storm  ! 
Ye  lightnings,  the  dread  arrows  of  the  clouds ! 
Ye  signs  and  wonders  of  the  element! 
Utter  forth  God,  and  fill  the  hills  with  praise ! 

Thou  too,  hoar  Mount!  with  thy  sky-pointing  peaks, 
Oft  from  whose  feet  the  avalanche,  unheard. 
Shoots  downward,  glittering  through  the  pure  serene. 
Into  the  depth  q{  clouds  that  veil  thy  breast  — 
Thou  too,  again,  stupendous  mountain !  thou, 
That  as  I  raise  my  head,  awhile  bowed  low 
In  adoration,  upward  from  thy  base 
Slow-travelling  with  dim  eyes  suff"used  with  tears, 
Solemnly  seemest,  like  a  vapory  cloud. 
To  rise  before  me  —  rise,  O  ever  rise, 


380  SAMUEL    TAYLOR  COLERIDGE.        Chap.  XXL 

Rise  like  a  cloud  of  incense  from  the  earth ! 
Thou  kingly  spirit  throned  among  the  hills, 
Thou  dread  ambassador  from  earth  to  heaven, 
Great  hierarch !  tell  thou  the  silent  sky, 
And  tell  the  stars,  and  tell  yon  rising  sun. 
Earth,  with  her  thousand  voices,  praises  God. 


303m    KuBLA  Khan:  or,  a  Vision  in  a  Dream. 

In  Xanadu  did  Kubla  Khan 
A  stately  pleai^oure-dome  decree  : 
Where  Alph,  the  sacred  river,  ran 
Through  caverns  ineasureless  to  man 

Down  to  a  sunless  sea. 
So  twice  five  miles  of  fertile  ground 
With  walls  and  towers  were  girdled  round  : 
And  there  were  gardens  bright  with  sinuous  rills 
Where  blossomed  many  an  incense-bearing  tree; 
And  here  were  forests  ancient  as  the  hills. 
Infolding  sunny  spots  of  greenery. 
But  O,  that  deep  romantic  chasm  which  slanted 
Down  the  green  hill  athwart  a  cedarn  cover! 
A  savage  place !  as  holy  and  enchanted 
As  e'er  beneath  a  waning  moon  was  haunted 
By  woman  wailing  for  her  demon-lover! 
And  from  this  chasm,  with  ceaseless  turmoil  seething, 
As  if  this  earth  in  fast  thick  pants  were  breathing, 
A  mighty  fountain  momently  was  forced  : 
Amid  whose  swift  half-intermitted  burst 
Huge  fragments  vaulted  like  rebounding  hail, 
Or  chaffy  grain  beneath  the  thresher's  flail : 
And  'mid  these  dancing  rocks  at  once  and  ever 
It  flung  up  momently  the  sacred  river. 
Five  miles  meandering  with  a  mazy  motion 
Through  wood  and  dale  the  sacred  river  ran, 
Then  reached  the  caverns  measureless  to  man, 
And  sank  in  tumult  to  a  lifeless  ocean : 
And  'mid  this  tumult  Kubla  heard  from  far 
Ancestral  voices  prophesying  war! 

The  shadow  of  the  dome  of  pleasure 

Floated  midway  on  the  waves ; 

Where  was  heard  the  mingled  measui'e 

From  the  fountain  and  the  caves. 
It  was  a  miracle  of  rare  device, 
A  sunny  pleasure-dome  with  caves  of  ice  I 


A.  D.  1772-1834.     SAMUEL   TAYLOR  COLERIDGE.  381 

A  damsel  with  a  dulcimer 

In  a  vision  once  I  saw : 

It  was  an  Abyssinian  maid, 

And  on  her  dulcimer  she  played, 

Singing  of  Mount  Abora. 

Could  I  revive  within  me 

Her  symphony  and  song, 

To  such  a  deep  delight  'twould  win  me. 
That  with  music  loud  and  long 
I  would  build  that  dome  in  air, 
That  sunny  dome  !  those  caves  of  ice ! 
And  all  who  heard  should  see  them  there, 
And  all  should  cry,  Beware  !  Beware  I 
His  flashing  eyes,  his  floating  hair! 
Weave  a  circle  round  him  thrice, 
And  close  your  eyes  with  holy  dread. 
For  he  on  honey-dew  hath  fed, 
And  drunk  the  milk  of  Paradise. 


From  "The  Ancient  Mariner.'* 
304,   A  Calm  on  the  Equator. 

The  fair  breeze  blew,  the  white  foam  flew, 

The  furrow  followed  free ; 

We  were  the  first  that  ever  burst 

Into  that  silent  sea. 

Down  dropped  the  breeze,  the  sails  dropped  down, 
'Twas  sad  as  sad  could  be ; 
And  we  did  speak  only  to  break 
The  silence  of  the  sea! 

All  in  a  hot  and  copper  sky, 
The  bloody  Sun,  at  noon. 
Right  up  above  the  mast  did  stand. 
No  bigger  than  the  Moon. 

Day  after  day,  day  after  day, 
We  stuck,  nor  breath  nor  motion : 
As  idle  as  a  painted  ship 
Upon  a  painted  ocean. 

Water,  water,  everywhere, 
And  all  the  boards  did  shrink  j 
Water,  water,  everywhere, 
Nor  any  drop  to  drink. 


382  SAMUEL   TAYLOR   COLERIDGE.        Chap.  XXL 

The  very  deep  did  rot :  —  O  Christ ! 
That  ever  this  should  be! 
Yea,  slimy  things  did  crawl  with  legs 
Upon  the  slimy  sea. 

About,  about,  in  reel  and  rout 
The  death-fires  danced  at  night; 
The  water,  like  a  witch's  oils, 
Burnt  green,  and  blue,  and  white. 


303,   The  Phantom  Ship. 

There  passed  a  weary  time.     Each  throat 

Was  parched,  and  glazed  each  eye. 

A  weary  time !  a  weary  time ! 

How  glazed  each  weary  eye. 

When,  looking  westw£;rd,  I  beheld 

A  something  in  the  sky  I 

At  first  it  seemed  a  little  speck. 
And  then  it  seemed  a  mist; 
It  moved  and  moved,  and  took  at  last 
A  certain  shape,  I  wist. 

A  speck,  a  mist,  a  shape,  I  wist! 
And  still  it  neared  and  neared : 
As  if  it  dodged  a  water-sprite, 
It  plunged  and  tacked  and  veered. 

With  throats  unslaked,  with  black  lips  baked, 

We  could  nor  laugh  nor  wail ; 

Through  utter  drought  all  dumb  we  stood  ! 

I  bit  my  arm,  I  sucked  the  blood. 

And  cried,  A  sail,  a  sail! 

With  throats  unslaked,  with  black  lips  baked? 
Agape  they  heard  me  call : 
Gramercyl  they  for  joy  did  grin. 
And  all  at  once  their  breath  drew  in, 
As  they  were  drinking  all. 

See!  see!  (I  cried)  she  tacks  no  morel 
Hither  to  work  us  weal ; 
Wit.hout  a  breeze,  without  a  tide. 
She  steadies  with  upright  keel  I 

The  western  wave  was  all  a-flame. 
The  day  was  well  nigh  done ! 


A.  D.  1772-1834.     SAMUEL   TAYLOR  COLERIDQE,  383 

Almost  upon  the  -western  wave 
Rested  the  broad  bright  Sun ; 
When  that  strange  shape  drove  suddenly 
Betwixt  us  and  the  Sun. 

And  straight  the  Sun  was  flecked  with  bars, 
(Heaven's  Mother  send  us  grace  !) 
As  if  through  a  dungeon-grate  he  peered 
With  broad  and  burning  face. 

Alas  I  (thought  I,  and  my  heart  beat  loud) 
How  fast  she  nears  and  nears ! 
Are  those  her  sails  that  glance  in  the  Sun, 
Like  restless  gossameres  ? 

Are  those  her  ribs  through  which  the  Sun 
Did  peer,  as  through  a  grate  ? 
And  is  that  Woman  all  her  crew? 
Is  that  a  Death?  and  are  there  two? 
Is  Death  that  Woman's  mate? 

Her  lips  were  red,  her  looks  were  free, 
Her  locks  were  yellow  as  gold  : 
Her  skin  was  as  white  as  leprosy, 
The  Night-mare  Life-in-Death  was  she, 
Who  thicks  man's  blood  with  cold. 

The  naked  hulk  alongside  came, 

And  the  twain  were  casting  dice ; 

"  The  game  is  done !  I've  won,  I've  won  I  ^ 

Quoth  she,  and  whistles  thrice. 

The  Sun's  rim  dips;  the  stars  rush  out: 
At  one  stride  comes  the  dark; 
With  far-heard  whisper,  o'er  the  sea, 
Off  shot  the  spectre-bark. 

We  listened  and  looked  sideways  up  I 

Fear  at  my  heart,  as  at  a  cup. 

My  life-blood  seemed  to  sip  ! 

The  stars  were  dim,  and  thick  the  night, 

The  steersman's  face  by  his  lamp  gleamed  white? 

From  the  sails  the  dew  did  drip  — 

Till  clomb  above  the  eastern  bar 

The  horned  Moon,  with  one  bright  star, 

Within  the  nether  tip. 


884  SAMUEL   TAYLOR   COLERIDGE,        Chap.  XXI. 

From  "The  Friend." 

SOS.   Truth. 

Monsters  and  madmen  canonized,  and  Galileo  blind  in  a  dungeon  I 
It  is  not  so  in  our  times.  Heaven  be  praised,  that  in  this  respect,  at 
least,  we  are,  if  not  better,  jet  better  (?^  than  our  forefathers.  But 
to  what  and  to  whom  (under  Providence)  do  we  owe  the  improve- 
ment.? To  any  radical  change  in  the  moral  affections  of  mankind  in 
general.?  In  order  to  answer  this  question  in  the  affirmative,  I  must 
forget  the  infamous  empirics  whose  advertisements  pollute  and  dis- 
grace all  our  newspapers,  and  almost  paper  the  walls  of  our  cities ; 
and  the  vending  of  whose  poisons  and  poisonous  drams  (with  shame 
and  anguish  be  it  spoken)  supports  a  shop  in  -every  market-town !  I 
must  forget  that  other  opprobrium  of  the  nation,  that  mother  vice,  the 
lottery!  I  must  forget  that  a  numerous  class  plead  prudence  for  keep- 
ing their  fellow-men  ignorant  and  incapable  of  intellectual  enjoy- 
ments, and  the  revenue  for  upholding  such  temptations  as  men  so 
ignorant  will  not  withstand  —  yes!  that  even  senators  and  officers  of 
state  hold  forth  the  revenue  as  a  sufficient  plea  for  upholding,  at  every 
fiftieth  door  throughout  the  kingdom,  temptations  to  the  most  per- 
nicious vices.  *  *  *  *  ]sjq  j  ig|-  yg  j^q(-  deceive  ourselves. 
Like  the  man  who  used  to  pull  off  his  hat  with  great  demonstration 
of  respect  whenever  he  spoke  of  himself,  we  are  fond  of  styling  our 
own  the  e7ilightened  age,  though,  as  Jortin,  I  think,  has  wittily  re- 
marked, the  golde?t  age  would  be  more  appropriate. 

To  whom,  then,  do  we  owe  our  ameliorated  condition.?  To  the 
successive  few  in  every  age  (more,  indeed,  in  one  generation  than  in 
another,  but  relatively  to  the  mass  of  mankind  always  few),  who,  by 
the  intensity  and  permanence  of  their  action,  have  compensated  for 
the  limited  sphere  within  which  it  is  at  any  one  time  intelligible,  and 
whose  good  deeds  posterity  reverence  in  their  results,  though  the 
mode  in  which  we  repair  the  inevitable  waste  of  time,  and  the  style 
of  our  additions,  too  generally  furnish  a  sad  proof  how  little  we 
understand  the  principles. 

Still,  however,  there  are  truths  so  self-evident,  or  so  immediately 
and  palpably  deduced  from  those  that  are,  or  are  acknowledged  for 
such,  that  they  are  at  once  intelligible  to  all  men  who  possess  the 
common  advantages  of  the  social  state ;  although  by  sophistry,  by 
evil  habits,  by  the  neglect,  false  persuasions,  and  impostures  of  an 
anti-Christian  priesthood,  joined  in  one  conspiracy  with  the  violence 
of  tj'rannical  governors,  the  understandings  of  men  may  become  so 
darkened,  and  their  consciences  so  lethargic,  that  there  may  arise  a 
necessity  for  the  republication  of  these  truths,  and  this,  too,  with  a 
voice  of  loud  alarm  and  impassioned  warning.  Such  were  the  doc- 
trines proclaimed  by  the  first  Christians  to  the  pagan  world  :  such  were 
the  lightnings  flashed  by  Wicklif,   Huss,  Luther,  Calvin,  Zuinglius, 


A.  D.  1772-1S34.     SAMUEL    TAYLOR   COLERIDGE.  385 

Latimer,  and  others,  across  the  papal  darkness;  and  such  in  our 
own  times,  the  agitating  truths  with  which  Thomas  Clarkson  and  his 
excellent  confederates,  the  Quakers,  fought  and  conquered  the  legal- 
ized banditti  of  men-stealers,  the  numerous  and  powerful  perpetrators 
and  advocates  of  rapine,  murder,  and  (of  blacker  guilt  than  either) 
slavery.  Truths  of  this  kind  being  indispensable  to  man,  considered 
as  a  moral  being,  are  above  all  expedience,  all  accidental  consequences  : 
for,  as  sure  as  God  is  holy  and  man  immortal,  there  can  be  no  evil  so 
great  as  the  ignorance  or  disregard  of  them.  It  is  the  very  madness 
of  mock  prudence  to  oppose  the  removal  of  a  poisoned  dish  on 
account  of  the  pleasant  sauces  or  nutritious  viands  which  would  be 
lost  with  it!  The  dish  contains  destruction  to  that  for  which  alone 
we  ought  to  wish  the  palate  to  be  gratified,  or  the  body  to  be  nourished. 
The  prejudices  of  one  age  are  condemned  even  by  the  prejudiced  of 
the  succeeding  ages  :  for  endless  are  the  modes  of  folly,  and  the  fool 
joins  with  the  wise  in  passing  sentence  on  all  modes  but  his  own. 
Who  cried  out  with  greater  horror  against  the  murderers  of  the  proph- 
ets than  those  who  likewise  cried  out.  Crucify  him !  crucify  him ! 
The  truth-haters  of  every  future  generation  will  call  the  truth-haters 
of  the  preceding  ages  by  their  true  names,  for  even  these  the  stream 
of  time  carries  onward.  In  fine,  truth,  considered  in  itself,  and  in  the 
effects  natural  to  it,  may  be  conceived  as  a  gentle  spring  or  water- 
source,  warm  from  the  genial  earth,  and  breathing  up  into  the  snow- 
drift that  is  piled  over  and  around  its  outlet.  It  turns  the  obstacle 
into  its  own  form  and  character,  and.  as  it  makes  its  way,  increases 
its  stream.  And  should  it  be  arrested  in  its  course  by  a  chilling 
season,  it  suffers  delay,  not  loss,  and  awaits  only  for  a  change  in  the 
wind  to  awaken  and  again  roll  onward. 


307,   Advantage  of  Method. 

What  is  that  which  first  strikes  us,  and  strikes  us  at  once,  in  a  man 
of  education;  and  which,  among  educated  men,  so  instantly  distin- 
guishes the  man  of  superior  mind,  that  (as  was  observed  with  eminent 
propriety  of  the  late  Edmund  Burke)  "  we  cannot  stand  under  the 
same  archway,  during  a  shower  of  rain,  without  finding  him  out"? 
Not  the  weight  or  novelty  of  his  remarks ;  not  any  unusual  interest  of 
facts  communicated  by  him  :  for  we  may  suppose  both  the  one  and  the 
other  precluded  by  the  shortness  of  our  intercourse,  and  the  triviality' 
of  the  subjects.  The  difference  will  be  impressed  and  felt  though  the 
conversation  should  be  confined  to  the  state  of  the  weather  or  the 
pavement.  Still  less  will  it  arise  from  any  peculiarity  in  his  words 
and  phiases;  for  if  he  be,  as  we  now  assume,  a  wcli-eduoited  man,  as 
well  as  a  man  of  superior  powers,  he  will  not  fail  to  follow  the  golden 
rule  of  Julius  Casar,  and,  unless  where  new  things  necessitate  new 
terms,  he  will  avoid  an  unusual  word  as  a  rock.  It  must  have  been 
among  the  earliest  lessons  of  his  youth  that  the  breach  of  this  precept, 

25 


388  SAMUEL    TAYLOR   COLERIDGE.        Chap.  XXL 

at  all  times  hazardous,  becomes  ridiculous  in  the  topics  of  ordinarj^ 
conversation.  There  remains  but  one  other  point  of  distinction  possi- 
ble; and  this  must  be,  and  in  fact  is,  the  true  cause  of  the  impression 
made  on  us.  It  is  the  unpremeditated  and  evidently  habitual  arrange' 
ment  of  his  words,  grounded  on  the  habit  of  foreseeing,  in  each  inte- 
gral part,  or  (more  plainly)  in  every  sentence,  the  whole  that  he  then 
intends  to  communicate.  However  irregular  and  desultory  his  talk, 
Lhere  is  method  in  the  fragments. 

Listen,  on  the  other  hand,  to  an  ignorant  man,  though  perhaps 
shrewd  and  able  in  his  particular  calling;  whether  he  be  describing 
or  relating.  We  immediately  perceive  that  his  memory  alone  is 
called  into  action,  and  that  the  objects  and  events  recur  in  the  narra- 
tion in  the  same  order,  and  with  the  same  accon:>paniments,  however 
accidental  or  impertinent,  as  they  had  first  occurred  to  the  narrator. 
The  necessity  of  taking  breath,  the  efforts  of  recollection,  and  the 
abrupt  rectification  of  its  failures,  produce  all  his  pauses,  and,  with 
the  exception  of  the  ^'- and  then,""  \\\q.  '•'■and  there"  and  the  still  less 
significant  "  and  so  "  they  constitute  likewise  all  his  connections.  Our 
discussion,  however,  is  confined  to  inethod,  as  employed  in  the  forma- 
tion of  the  understanding  and  in  the  constructions  of  science  and 
literature.  It  would,  indeed,  be  superfluous  to  attempt  a  proof  of  its 
importance  in  the  business  and  economy  of  active  or  domestic  life. 
From  the  cotter's  hearth,  or  the  workshop  of  the  artisan,  to  the  pal- 
ace, or  the  arsenal,  the  first  merit,  that  which  admits  neither  substitute 
nor  equivalent,  is,  that  everything'  is  in  its  place.  Where  this  charm 
is  wanting,  every  other  merit  either  loses  its  name  or  becomes  an 
additional  ground  of  accusation  and  regret.  Of  one  by  whom  it  is 
eminently  possessed,  we  say  proverbially  he  is  like  clock-work.  The 
resemblance  extends  beyond  the  point  of  regularity,  and  yet  falls 
short  of  the  truth.  Both  do,  indeed,  at  once  divide  and  announce  the 
silent  and  otherwise  indistinguishable  lapse  of  time.  But  the  man  of 
methodical  industry  and  honorable  pursuits  does  more  :  he  realizes 
its  ideal  divisions,  and  gives  a  character  and  individuality  to  its 
moments.  If  the  idH  are  described  as  killing  time,  he  may  be  justly 
said  to  call  it  into  life  and  moral  being,  while  he  makes  it  the  distinct 
object  not  only  of  the  consciousness,  but  of  the  conscience.  He  or- 
ganizes the  hours,  and  gives  them  a  soul ;  and  that,  the  very  essence 
of  which  is  to  fleet  away,  and  evermore  to  have  bec7t^  he  takes  up  into 
his  own  permanence,  and  communicates  to  it  the  imperishablen»;ss  of 
a  spiritual  nature.  Of  the  good  and  faithful  servant  whose  energies, 
thus  directed,  are  thus  methodized,  it  is  less  truly  aflirmed  that  he 
lives  in  time  than  that  time  lives  in  him.  His  days,  months,  and 
years,  as  the  stops  and  punctual  marks  in  the  records  of  duties  per- 
formed, will  sui-vive  the  wreck  of  worlds,  and  rema'n  extant  when 
time  itself  shall  be  no  more. 


A.  D.  I';t4-1843.  ROBERT  SOUTHEY.  387 

Robert  SouTHEY.    1774-1843.    (Manual,  pp.  427-431.) 
SOS,   The  Battle  of  Blenheim.* 

It  was  a  summer  evening, 

Old  Kaspar's  work  was  done, 
And  he  before  his  cottage-door 

Was  sitting  in  the  sun  : 
And  by  him  sported  on  the  green 
His  little  grandchild  Wilhelmine. 

She  saw  her  brother  Peterkin 

Roll  something  large  and  round. 
Which  he  beside  the  rivulet, 

In  playing  there,  had  found; 
He  came  to  ask  what  he  had  found, 
That  was  so  large,  and  smooth,  and  round. 

Old  Kaspar  took  it  from  the  boy, 

Who  stood  expectant  by; 
And  then  the  old  man  shook  his  head, 

And  with  a  natural  sigh, 
*"Tis  some  poor  fellow's  skull,"  said  he, 
"  Who  fell  in  the  great  victory. 

♦♦  I  find  them  in  the  garden. 

For  there's  many  here  about; 
And  often,  when  I  go  to  plough, 

The  ploughshare  turns  them  out! 
For  many  thousand  men,"  said  he, 
"Were  slain  in  that  great  victory." 

"Now  tell  us  what  'twas  all  about," 

Young  Peterkin,  he  cries  : 
While  little  Wilhelmine  looks  up, 

With  wonder-waiting  eyes : 
•'  Now  tell  us  all  about  the  war, 

And  what  they  killed  each  other  for.** 

♦'  It  was  the  English,"  Kaspar  cried, 

*'  Who  put  the  French  to  rout; 
But  what  they  killed  each  other  for, 

I  could  not  well  make  out. 
But  everybody  said,"  quoth  he, 

♦*  That  'twas  a  famous  victory. 

1  A  battle  fought  near  the  village  of  Blenheim,  Bavaria,  August  2, 17(M,  in  which  the  English  Dnke  of 
Marlborough  gained  a  victory  over  the  French  and  Bavariana.  It  is  called  by  tlic  French  the  Battle  i>/ 
Hochetedt. 


388  BOBERT  SOUTHEY.  Chap.  XXI 

'*  My  father  lived  at  Blenheim  then, 

Yon  little  stream  hard  by ; 
They  burnt  his  dwelling  to  the  ground, 

And  he  was  forced  to  fly ; 
So  with  his  wife  and  child  he  fled, 
Nor  had  he  where  to  rest  his  head. 
I 

**With  fire  and  sword,  the  country  round 

Was  wasted  far  and  wide ; 
And  many  a  childing  mother  then. 

And  new-born  baby,  died  ; 
But  things  like  that,  you  know,  must  be 

At  every  famous  victory. 

"  They  say  it  was  a  shocking  sight 

After  the  field  was  won  ; 
For  many  thousand  bodies  here 

Lay  rotting  in  the  sun; 
But  things  like  that,  you  know,  must  be 
After  a  famous  victory. 

*'  Great  praise  the  Duke  of  Marlbro'  won. 

And  our  good  prince,  Eugene." 
**  Why,  'twas  a  very  wicked  thing !  " 

Said  little  Wilhelmine. 
**Nay — nay  —  my  little  girl,"  quoth  he, 

*'  It  was  a  famous  victory. 

"And  everybody  praised  the  duke. 

Who  this  great  fight  did  win." 
"And  what  good  came  of  it  at  last?" 

Quoth  little  Peterkin. 
"  Why,  that  I  cannot  tell,"  said  he, 
"But  'twas  a  famous  victory." 


300»    The  Evening  Rainbow. 

Mild  arch  of  promise!  on  the  evening  sky 
Thou  shinest  fair,  with  many  a  lovely  ray, 
Each  in  the  other  melting.     Much  mine  eye 
Delights  to  linger  on  thee ;  for  the  day. 
Changeful  and  many-weathered,  seemed  to  smile, 
Flashing  brief  splendor  through  its  clouds  awhile, 
That  deepened  dark  anon,  and  fell  in  rain : 
But  pleasant  it  is  now  to  pause,  and  view 
Thy  various  tints  of  frail  and  watery  hue, 
And  think  the  storm  shall  not  return  again. 


A.  D.  1774-1843.  ROBERT  SOUTIIET.  389 


310*   Lord  William  and  Edmund. 

No  eye  beheld  when  William  plunged 

Young  Edmund  in  the  stream  : 
No  human  ear  but  William's  heard 

Young  Edmund's  drowning  scream. 

"I  bade  thee  with  a  father's  love 

Mj  orphan  Edmund  guard  — 
Well,  William,  hast  thou  kept  thy  charge? 

Now  take  thy  due  reward." 

He  started  up,  each  limb  convulsed 

With  agonizing  fear  — 
He  only  heard  the  storm  of  night  — 

'Twas  music  to  his  ear! 

When  lo!  the  voice  of  loud  alarm 

His  inmost  soul  appalls  — 
"What,  ho!  Lord  William,  rise  in  haste  I 

The  water  saps  thy  walls  !  " 

He  rose  in  haste  —  beneath  the  walls 

He  saw  the  flood  appear; 
It  hemmed  him  round  —  'twas  midnight  now  — 

No  human  aid  was  near. 

He  heard  the  shout  of  joy !  for  now 

A  boat  approached  the  wall : 
And  eager  to  the  welcome  aid 

They  crowd  for  safety  all. 

"My  boat  is  small,"  the  boatman  cried, 

"  'Twill  bear  but  one  away; 
Come  in.  Lord  William,  and  do  ye' 

In  God's  protection  stay." 

The  boatman  plied  the  oar,  the  boat 

Went  light  along  the  stream ;  — 
Sudden  Lord  William  heard  a  cry, 

Like  Edmund's  dying  scream! 

The  boatman  paused  —  "Methought  I  heard 

A  child's  distressful  cry!" 
"'Twas  but  the  howling  winds  of  night,'* 

Lord  William  made  reply. 

"  Haste  —  haste  —  pi}'  swift  and  strong  the  oar ; 

Haste  —  haste  across  the  stream  !  " 
Again  Lord  William  heard  a  cry, 

Like  Edmund's  dying  scream  I 


390  BOBERT  SOUTHEY.  Chap.  XXL 

**  I  heard  a  child's  distressful  scream," 

The  boatman  cried  again. 
**  Nay,  hasten  on  —  the  night  is  dark  — 

And  we  should  search  in  vain." 

"  O  God  !  Lord  William,  dost  thou  know 

How  dreadful  'tis  to  die? 
And  canst  thou,  without  pity,  hear 

A  child's  expiring  cry? 

*'  How  horrible  it  is  to  sink 

Beneath  the  chilly  stream  : 
To  stretch  the  powerless  arms  in  vain  ! 

In  vain  for  help  to  scream  !  " 

The  shriek  again  was  heard  :  it  came 

More  deep,  more  piercing  loud. 
That  instant,  o'er  the  flood,  the  moon 

Shone  through  a  broken  cloud  ; 

And  near  them  they  beheld  a  child; 

Upon  a  crag  he  stood, 
A  little  crag,  and  all  around 

Was  spread  the  rising  flood. 

The  boatman  plied  the  oar,  the  boat 

Approached  his  resting-place ; 
The  moonbeam  shone  upon  the  child, 

And  showed  how  pale  his  face. 

"  Now  reach  thy  hand,"  the  boatman  cried, 

"  Lord  William,  reach  and  save  !  " 
The  child  stretched  forth  his  little  hands, 

To  grasp  the  hand  he  gave. 

Then  William  shrieked;  —  the  hand  he  touched 

Was  cold,  and  damp,  and  dead ! 
He  felt  young  Edmund  in  his  arms, 

A  heavier  weight  than  lead! 

**  Help  !  help  !  for  mercy,  help  !  "  he  cried, 

"The  waters  round  me  flow." 
"No  —  William — to  an  infant's  cries 

No  mercy  didst  thou  show." 

The  boat  sunk  down  —  the  murderer  sunk 

Beneath  th'  avenging  stream; 
He  rose  —  he  screamed  —  no  human  ear 

Heard  William's  drowning  scream. 


A.  D.  1774-1843.  ROBERT  SOUTHEY.  391 


311  •    From  the  "Life  of  Nelson." 

It  had  been  part  of  Nelson's  prayer,   that  the  British  fleet  might 
be  distinguished  by  humanity  in  the  victorj'  which  he  expected.     Set- 
ting an  example  himself,  he  twice  gave  orders  to  cease  firing  on  the 
Redoubtable,  supposing  that  she  had  struck,  because  her  guns  were 
silent;   for,  as   she  carried  no  flag,  there  was  no   means  of  instantly 
ascertaining   the   fact.      From    this    ship,   which   he    had   thus    twice 
spared,  he  received  his  death.    A  ball  fired  from  her  mizzen-top,  which, 
in  the  then  situation  of  the   two  vessels,  was  not  more  than  fifteen 
yards  from   that  part  of  the  deck  where  he  was  standing,  struck  the 
epaulet  on  his  left  shoulder,    about  a  quarter   after  one,  just  in  the 
heat  of  action.     He  fell  upon  his  face,  on  the  spot  which  was  covered 
with  his  poor  secretary's  blood.     Hardy,  who  was  a  few  steps  from 
him,   turning  round,   saw  three  men  raising  him  up.      "They  have 
done  for  me  at  last,   Hardy,"  said  he.     "I  hope  not,"  cried  Hardy. 
'•  Yes  !  "  he  replied  ;   "  my  back-bone  is  shot  through."    Yet  even  now, 
not  for  a  moment  losing  his  presence  of  mind,  he  observed,  as  they 
were  carrying  him  down  the  ladder,  that  the  tiller- ropes,  which  had  been 
shot  awa}',  were  not  yet  replaced,  and  ordered  that  now  ones  should 
be  rove  immediately;  then,  that  he  might  not  be  seen  by  the  crew,  he 
took  out  his  handkerchief,  and  covered  his  face  and  his  stars.     Had 
he  but  concealed  these  badges  of  honor  from  the  enemy,   England, 
perhaps,  would  not  have  had  cause  to  receive  with  sorrow  the  news  of 
the  battle  of  Trafalgar.     The  cockpit  was  crowded  with  wounded  and 
dying  men,  over  whose  bodies  he  was  with  some  difficulty  conveyed, 
and  laid  upon  a  pallet  in  the  midshipmen's  berth.     It  was  soon  per- 
ceived,  upon  examination,   that  the  wound  was  inortal.     This,  how- 
ever, was  concealed  from  all  except  Captain  Hardy,  the  chaplain,  and 
the  medical  attendants.     He  himself  being  certain,   from  the  sensa- 
tion in  his  back,  and  the  gush  of  blood  he  felt  momently  within  his 
breast,  that  no  human  care  could  avail  him,  insisted  that  the  surgeon 
should  leave  him,  and  attend  to  those  to  whom  he  might  be  useful ; 
"  for,"  said  he,  "  you  can  do  nothing  for  me."     All  that  could  be  done 
was  to  fan  him  with  paper,  and  frequently  to  give  him  lemonade  to 
alleviate  his  intense  thirst.      He  was  in  great  pain,    and   expressed 
much  anxiety  for  the  event  of  the  action,  which  now  began  to  declare 
itself.     As  often  as  a  ship  struck,  the  crew  of  the  Victory  hurrahed; 
and  at  every  hurrah,  a  visible  expression  of  joy  gleamed  in  the  eyes 
and  marked  the  countenance  of  the  dying  hero.     But  he  became  im- 
patient to  see  Hardy;  and  as  that  officer,  though  often  sent  for,  could 
not  leave  the  deck,  Nehon  feared  that  some  fatal  cause  prevented  him, 
and  repeatedly  cried,   "Will  no  one  bring  Hardy  to  me.-*  he  must  be 
killed !  he  is  surely  dead !  "     An  hour  and  ten  minutes  elapsed  from 
the  time  when  Nelson  received  his  wound,  before  Hardy  could  come 
to  him.     Ti-ey  shook  hands  in  silence;  Hardy  in  vain  struggling  ta 
suppress  the;  feelings  of  that  most  painful  and  yet  sublimest  moment 


392  ROBERT  SOUTHEY.  Chap.  XXL 

"Well,  Hardy,"  said  Nelson,  "  how  goes  the  day  with  us?"  "Very 
well,"  replied  Hardy;  "  ten  ships  have  struck,  but  five  of  the  van  have 
tacked,  and  show  an  intention  to  bear  down  upon  the  Victory.  I 
have  called  two  or  three  of  our  fresh  ships  round,  and  have  no  doubt 
of  giving  them  a  drubbing."  "I  hope,"  said  Nelson,  "none  of  our 
ships  have  struck."  Hardy  answered,  "there  was  no  fear  of  that." 
Then,  and  not  till  then,  Ne)son  spoke  of  himself.  "  I  am  a  dead 
man,  Hardy,"  said  he  ;  "  I  am  going  fast :  it  will  be  all  over  with  me 
soon.  Come  nearer  to  me.  Let  my  dear  Lady  Hamilton  have  my 
hair,  and  all  other  things  belonging  to  me."  Hardy  observed,  that  he 
hoped  Mr.  Beatty  could  yet  hold  out  some  prospect  of  life.  "  O  !  no," 
he  replied,  "  it  is  impossible.  My  back  is  shot  through.  Beatty  will 
tell  you  so."  Hardy  then,  once  more,  shook  hands  with  him,  and 
with  a  heart  almost  bursting,  hastened  upon  deck. 

By  this  time  all  feeling  below  the  breast  was  gone;  and  Nelson, 
having  made  the  surgeon  ascertain  this,  said  to  him,  "You  know  I 
am  gone.  I  know  it.  I  feel  something  rising  in  my  breast,"  putting 
his  hand  on  his  left  side,  "which  tells  me  so."  And  upon  Beatty's 
inquiring  whether  his  pain  was  very  great,  he  replied,  "  so  great  that 
he  wished  he  was  dead.  Yet,"  said  he,  in  a  lower  voice,  "one  would 
like  to  live  a  little  longer  too !  "  And  after  a  few  minutes,  in  the  same 
under-tone,  he  added,  "  What  would  become  of  poor  Lady  Hamilton, 
if  she  knew  my  situation !  "  Next  to  his  country  she  occupied  his 
thoughts.  Captain  Hardy,  some  fifty  minutes  after  he  had  left  the 
cockpit,  returned ;  and,  again  taking  the  hand  of  his  dying  friend  and 
commander,  congratulated  him  on  having  gained  a  complete  victory. 
How  many  of  the  enemy  were  taken  he  did  not  know,  as  it  was  im- 
possible to  perceive  them  distinctly;  but  fourteen  or  fifteen  at  least. 
"That's  well,"  cried  Nelson,  "but  I  bargained  for  twenty."  And 
then,  in  a  stronger  voice,  he  said,  "Anchor,  Hardy;  anchor."  Hardy, 
upon  this,  hinted  that  Admiral  Collingwood  would  take  upon  himself 
the  direction  of  affairs.  "Not  while  I  live.  Hardy,"  said  the  dying 
Nelson,  ineffectually  endeavoring  to  raise  himself  from  the  bed:  "do 
you  anchor."  His  previous  orders  for  preparing  to  anchor  had  shown 
how  clearly  he  foresaw  the  necessity  of  this.  Presently,  calling  Hardy 
back,  he  said  to  him,  in  a  low  voice,  "Don't  throw  me  overboard;" 
and  he  desired  that  he  might  be  buried  by  his  parents,  unless  it  should 
please  the  king  to  order  otherwise.  *  ♦  ♦  *  His  artic- 
ulation now  became  difficult!  but  he  was  distinctly  heard  to  say, 
"Thank  God,  I  have  done  my  duty!"  These  words  he  repeatedly 
pronounced;  and  they  were  the  last  words  which  he  uttered.  He 
expired  at  thirty  minutes  after  four,  —  three  hours  and  a  quarter  after 
he  had  received  his  wound. 

The  death  of  Nelson  was  felt  in  England  as  something  more  than 
a  public  calamity :  men  started  at  the  intelligence,  and  turned  pale, 
as  if  they  had  heard  of  the  loss  of  a  dear  friend.  An  object  of  oui 
admiration  and  affection,  of  our  pride  and  of  our  hopes,  was  suddenly 


A.  D.  1763-1855.  SAMUEL  EOQERS.  393 

taken  from  us;  and  it  seemed  as  if  we  had  never  till  then  known  how 
deeply  we  loved  and  reverenced  him.  What  the  country  had  lost  in 
its  great  naval  hero  —  the  greatest  of  our  own  and  of  all  former  times 
—  was  scarcely  taken  into  the  account  of  grief.  So  perfectly,  indeed, 
had  he  performed  his  part,  that  the  maritime  war,  after  the  battle  of 
Trafalgar,  was  considered  at  an  end.  The  fleets  of  the  enemy  were 
not  merely  defeated,  but  destroyed ;  new  navies  must  be  built,  and  a 
new  race  of  seamen  reared  for  them,  before  the  possibility  of  their 
invading  our  shores  could  again  be  contemplated.  It  was  not,  there- 
fore, from  any  selfish  reflection  upon  the  magnitude  of  our  loss  that 
\ve  mourned  for  him  :  the  general  sorrow  was  of  a  higher  character. 
The  people  of  England  grieved  that  funeral  ceremonies,  and  public 
monuments,  and  posthumous  rewards,  were  all  which  they  could  now 
bestow  upon  him  whom  the  king,  the  legislature,  and  the  nation 
would  have  alike  delighted  to  honor;  whom  every  tongue  would  have 
blessed ;  whose  presence  in  every  village  through  which  he  might 
have  passed  would  have  wakened  the  church-bells,  have  given  school- 
boys a  holiday,  have  drawn  children  from  their  sports  to  gaze  upon 
him,  and  "old  men  from  the  chimney  corner"  to  look  upon  Nelson 
ere  they  died.  The  victory  of  Trafalgar  was  celebrated,  indeed,  with 
the  usual  forms  of  rejoicing,  but  they  were  without  joy;  for  such 
already  was  the  glory  of  the  British  navy,  through  Nelson's  surpass- 
ing genius,  that  it  scarcely  seemed  to  receive  any  addition  from  the 
most  signal  victory  that  ever  was  achieved  upon  the  seas;  and  the 
destruction  of  this  mighty  fleet,  by  which  all  the  maritime  schemes 
of' France  were  totally  frustrated,  hardly  appeared  to  add  to  our 
security  or  strength ;  for,  while  Nelson  was  living  to  watch  the  com- 
bined squadrons  of  the  enemy,  we  felt  ourselves  as  secure  as  now, 
when  they  were  no  longer  in  existence. 


Samuel  Rogers.     1763-1S55.    (Manual,  p.  432.) 

312,     GiNEVRA. 

She  was  an  only  child  —  her  name  Ginevra,  — 
The  joy,  the  pride  of  an  indulgent  father; 
And  in  her  fifteenth  year  became  a  bride, 
Marrying  an  only  son,  Francesco  Doria, 
Her  playmate  from  her  birth,  and  her  first  love. 

Just  as  she  looks  there  in  her  bridal  dress, 
She  was  all  gentleness,  all  gayety, 
Iler  pranks  the  favorite  theme  of  every  tongue. 
But  now  the  day  was  come,  the  day,  the  hour; 
Now  frowning,  smiling,  for  the  hundredth  time, 
The  nurse,  that  ancient  lady,  preached  decorum; 
And,  in  the  lustre  of  her  youth,  she  gave 
Her  hand,  with  her  heart  in  it,  to  Francesco. 


394  SAMUEL  ROGERS.  Chap.  XXL 

Great  was  the  joy ;  but  at  the  nuptial  feast, 
When  all  sate  down,  the  bride  herself  was  wanting, 
Nor  was  she  to  be  found  !     Her  father  cried, 
"  'Tis  but  to  make  a  trial  of  our  love ! " 
And  filled  his  glass  to  all;  but  his  hand  shook. 
And  soon  from  guest  to  guest  the  panic  spread. 
'Twas  but  that  instant  she  had  left  Francesco, 
Laughing,  and  looking  back,  and  flying  still, 
Her  ivory  tooth  imprinted  on  his  finger. 
But  now,  alas  !  she  was  not  to  be  found ; 
Nor  from  that  hour  could  anything  be  guessed, 
But  that  she  was  not! 

Weary  of  his  life, 
Francesco  flew  to  Venice,  and,  embarking, 
Flung  it  away  in  battle  with  the  Turks. 
Orsini  lived;  and  long  might  you  have  seen 
An  old  man  wandering  as  in  quest  of  something  — 
Something  he  could  not  find  —  he  knew  not  what. 
When  he  was  gone,  the  house  remained  awhile 
Silent  and  tenantless,  then  went  to  strangers. 

Full  fifty  years  were  past  and  all  forgotten. 
When  on  an  idle  day,  a  day  of  search 
'Mid  the  old  lumber  in  the  gallery. 
That  mouldering  chest  was  noticed;  and  'twas  said. 
By  one  as  young,  as  thoughtless  as  Ginevra, 
''  Why  not  remove  it  from  its  lurking-place.^" 
'Twas  done  as  soon  as  said ;  but  on  the  vray 
It  burst,  it  fell ;  and  lo  !  a  skeleton. 
With  here  and  there  a  pearl,  an  emerald  stone, 
A  golden  clasp,  clasping  a  shred  of  gold. 
All  else  had  perished  —  save  a  wedding  ring 
And  a  small  seal,  her  mother's  legacy. 
Engraven  with  a  name,  the  name  of  both, 
"Ginevra." 

There  then  had  she  found  a  gravel 
Within  that  chest  had  she  concealed  herself. 
Fluttering  with  joy,  the  happiest  of  the  happy; 
When  a  spring  lock,  that  lay  in  ambush  there, 
Fastened  her  down  forever ! 


A.  1).  1791-1823.       REV.    CHARLES    WOLFE.  o'J.i 

Rev.  Charles  Wolfe.     1791-1S33.     (Manual,  p.  432.) 
313 »   The  Burial  of  Sir  John  MooreJ 

Not  a  drum  was  heard,  not  a  funeral  note, 

As  his  corse  to  the  rampart  we  hurried  : 
Not  a  soldier  discharged  his  farewell  shot 

O'er  the  grave  where  our  hero  we  buried. 

We  buried  him  darkly  at  dead  of  night. 

The  sods  with  our  bayonets  turning  — 
By  the  struggling  moonbeam's  misty  light, 

And  the  lantern  dimly  burning. 

No  useless  coffin  enclosed  his  breast, 

Not  in  sheet  or  in  shroud  we  wound  him; 
But  he  lay  like  a  warrior  taking  his  rest, 

With  his  martial  cloak  around  him. 

few  and  short  were  the  prayers  we  said, 

And  we  spoke  not  a  word  of  sorrow; 
But  we  steadfastly  gazed  on  the  face  that  was  dead, 

And  we  bitterly  thought  of  the  morrow. 

vVe  thought,  as  we  hollowed  his  narrow^  bed, 

And  smoothed  down  his  lonely  pillow, 
That  the  foe  and  the  stranger  would  tread  o'er  his  head, 

And  we  far  away  on  the  billow. 

Lighth'  ih<:y'll  talk  of  the  spirit  that's  gone. 

And  o'er  nis  cold  ashes  upbraid  him  — 
But  little  ht,  11  reck,  if  they  let  him  sleep  on 

In  the  grave  where  a  Briton  has  laid  him. 

But  half  ol  our  heavy  task  was  done 

When  the  clock  struck  the  hour  for  retiring; 

And  we  heard  the  distant  and  random  gun 
That  the  foe  was  sullenly  firing. 

Slowly  and  sadly  we  laid  him  down, 

From  the  field  of  his  fame  fresh  and  gory; 

We  carved  not  a  line,  and  we  raised  not  a  stone  — 
But  we  left  him  alone  with  his  glory. 

1  Sir  John  Moore  was  mortally  wounded  by  a  cannon  ball,  January  16,  1809,  in  an  action  between  tht 
English  and  Spanish  forces  under  his  command,  and  the  French  under  Marshal  Soult,  on  the  Heights  of 
Elvina,  near  Corunna  Spain,  and  died  in  the  moment  of  his  victory. 


396  JAMES  MONTQOMERY.  Chap.  XXI 

James  Montgomery,     i  771-1854.     (Manual,  p.  432.) 

From  "  The  West  Indies." 

3]  4:»    The  Love  of  Country  and  of  Homb. 

There  is  a  land,  of  every  land  the  pride, 

Beloved  by  heaven,  o'er  all  the  world  beside   ; 

Where  brighter  suns  dispense  serener  light, 

And  milder  moons  emparadise  the  night; 

A  land  of  beauty,  virtue,  valor,  truth. 

Time-tutored  age,  and  love-exalted  youth  ; 

The  "wandering  mariner,  whose  eye  explores 

The  wealthiest  isles,  the  most  enchanting  shores, 

Views  not  a  realm  so  bountiful  and  fair, 

Nor  breathes  the  spirit  of  a  purer  air; 

In  every  clime  the  magnet  of  his  soul, 

Touched  by  remembrance,  trembles  to  that  pole; 

For  in  this  land  of  heaven's  peculiar  grace. 

The  heritage  of  nature's  noblest  race, 

There  is  a  spot  of  earth  supremely  blest, 

A  dearer,  sweeter  spot  than  all  the  rest ; 

Where  man,  creation's  tyrant,  casts  aside 

His  sword  and  sceptre,  pageantry  and  pride, 

While  in  his  softened  looks  benignly  blend 

The  sire,  the  son,  the  husband,  father,  friend : 

Here  woman  reigns  :  the  mother,  daughter,  wife, 

Strews  with  fresh  flowers  the  narrow  way  of  life ; 

In  the  clear  heaven  of  her  delightful  eye, 

An  angel-guard  of  loves  and  graces  lie; 

Around  her  knees  domestic  duties  meet. 

And  fireside  pleasures  gambol  at  her  feet. 

"  Where  shall  that  land,  that  spot  of  earth,  be  found?" 

Art  thou  a  man  ?  —  a  patriot  ?  —  look  around ; 

O,  thou  shalt  find,  howe'er  thy  footsteps  roam, 

That  land  thy  country,  and  that  spot  thy  home! 


31o,     Prayer. 

Prayer  is  the  soul's  sincere  desire, 
Uttered  or  unexpressed ; 

The  motion  of  a  hidden  fire 
That  trembles  in  the  breast. 

Prayer  is  the  burden  of  a  sigh, 

The  falling  of  a  tear. 
The  upward  glancing  of  an  eye, 

When  none  but  God  is  near. 


A.  D.  1780-1849.  HORACE   SMITH.  397 

Prayer  is  the  simplest  form  of  speech 

That  infant  lips  can  try; 
Prayer  the  sublimest  strains  that  reach 

The  Majesty  on  high. 

Prayer  is  the  Christian's  vital  breath, 

The  Christian's  native  air; 
His  watchword  at  the  gates  of  death, 

He  enters  heaven  by  prayer. 

Prayer  is  the  contrite  sinner's  voice 

Returning  from  his  ways ; 
While  angels  in  their  songs  rejoice, 

And  say,  "  Behold,  he  prays  !  " 

The  saints  in  prayer  appear  as  one. 

In  word,  and  deed,  and  mind, 
When  with  the  Father  and  his  Son 

Their  fellowship  they  find. 

Nor  prayer  is  made  on  earth  alone; 

The  Holy  Spirit  pleads; 
And  Jesus,  on  the  eternal  throne. 

For  sinners  intercedes. 

O  Thou,  by  whom  we  come  to  God, 

The  Life,  the  Truth,  the  Way, 
The  path  of  prayer  thyself  hast  trod, 

Lord,  teach  us  how  to  pray! 


Horace  Smith.     17S0-1S49.     (Manual,  p.  432.) 
310,    Address  to  a  Mummy. 

And  thou  hast  walked  about  (how  strange  a  story!) 
In  Thebes's  streets  three  thousand  j'ears  ago. 

When  the  Memnonium  was  in  all  its  glory, 
And  time  had  not  begun  to  overthrow 

Those  temples,  palaces,  and  piles  stupendous. 

Of  which  the  very  ruins  are  tremendous ! 

Speak  !  for  thou  long  enough  hast  acted  dumby  : 
Thou  hast  a  tongue,  come,  let  us  hear  its  tune; 

Thou'rt  standing  on  thy  legs  above  ground,  mummy! 
Revisiting  the  glimpses  of  the  moon. 

Not  like  thin  ghosts  or  disembodied  creatures, 

But  Aiith  thy  bones,  and  flesh,  and  limbs,  and  features. 


3i/8  HORACE   SMITH.  Chap.  XXI. 

Tell   IS  —  for  doubtless  thou  canst  recollect  — 
To  whom  we  should  assign  the  Sphinx's  fame? 

Was  Cheops  or  Cephrenes  architect  ^ 

Of  either  Pyramid  that  bears  his  name? 

Is  Pompey's  Pillar  really  a  misnomer? 

Had  Thebes  a  hundred  gates,  as  sung  by  Homer? 

Perhaps  thou  wert  a  mason,  and  forbidden 

By  oath  to  tell  the  secrets  of  thy  trade  — 
Then  say,  what  secret  melody  was  hidden 

In  Memnon's  statue,  which  at  sunrise  played? 
Perhaps  thou  wert  a  Priest —  if  so,  my  struggles 
Are  vain,  for  priestcraft  never  owns  its  juggles. 

Perchance  that  very  hand,  now  pinioned  flat, 

Has  hob-a-nobbed  with  Pharaoh,  glass  to  glass; 

Or  dropped  a  halfpenny  in  Homer's  hat, 

Or  dofted  thine  own  to  let  Queen  Dido  pass, 

Or  held,  by  Solomon's  own  invitation, 

A  torch  at  the  great  Temple's  dedication. 

I  need  not  ask  thee  if  that  hand,  when  armed, 
Has  any  Roman  soldier  mauled  and  knuckled, 

For  thou  wert  dead,  and  buried,  and  embalmed, 
Ere  Romulus  and  Remus  had  been  suckled: 

Antiquity  appears  to  have  begun 

Long  after  thy  primeval  race  was  run. 

Thou  couldst  develop,  if  that  withered  tongue 

Might  tell  us' what  those  sightless  orbs  have  seen, 

How  the  world  looked  when  it  was  fresh  and  young, 
And  the  great  deluge  still  had  left  it  green; 

Or  was  it  then  so  old,  that  history's  pages 

Contained  no  record  of  its  early  ages? 

Still  silent,  incommunicative  elf! 

Art  sworn  to  secrecy?  then  keep  thy  vows; 
But  prythee  tell  us  something  of  thyself, 

Reveal  the  secrets  of  thy  prison-house; 
Since  in  the  world  of  spirits  thou  hast  slumbered, 
What  hast  thou  seen  —  what  strange  adventures  numbered? 

Since  first  thy  form  was  in  this  box  extended. 

We  have,  above  ground,  seen  some  strange  mutations; 

The  Roman  empire  has  begun  and  ended, 

New  worlds  have  risen — we  have  lost  old  nations, 

And  countless  kings  have  into  dust  been  humbled. 

Whilst  not  a  fragment  of  thy  flesh  has  crumbled. 


A.  D.  1770-1827.  GEORGE   CANNING,  399 

Didst  thou  not  hear  the  pother  o'er  thy  head, 
When  the  great  Persian  conqueror,  Cambjses, 

Marched  armies  o'er  thj  tomb  with  thundering  tread, 
O'erthrew  Osiris,  Orus,  Apis,  Isis, 

And  shook  the  pyramids  with  fear  and  wonder. 

When  the  gigantic  Memnon  fell  asunder? 

If  the  tomb's  secrets  may  not  be  confessed, 

The  nature  of  thy  private  life  unfold  : 
A  heart  has  throbbed  beneath  that  leathern  breast. 

And  tears  adown  that  dusky  cheek  have  rolled; 
Have  children  climbed  those  knees  and  kissed  that  face? 
What  was  thy  name  and  station,  age  and  race? 

Statue  of  flesh  —  immortal  of  the  dead  ! 

Imperishable  type  of  evanescence  ! 
Posthumous  man,  who  quitt'st  thy  narrow  bed, 

And  standest  undecayed  within  our  presence. 
Thou  wilt  hear  nothing  till  the  judgment  morning, 
When  the  great  trump  shall  thrill  thee  with  its  warning. 

Why  should  this  worthless  tegument  endure. 

If  its  undying  guest  be  lost  forever? 
O,  let  us  keep  the  soul  embalmed  and  pure 

In  living  virtue,  that,  when  both  must  sever, 
Although  corruption  may  our  frame  consume, 
The  immortal  spirit  in  the  skies  may  bloom. 


George  Canning,     i 770-1827. 

From  "The  Antijacobin." 

31  7  •   The  Friend  of  Humanity  and  the  Knife-Grindeu. 

Frie7id  of  Human iiy. 

Needy  Knife-grinder,  whither  are  you  going? 
Rough  is  3'our  road,  your  wheel  is  out  of  order; 
Bleak  blows  the  blast  —  your  hat  has  got  a  hole  in't 

So  have  your  breeches. 

Weary  Knife-grinder,  little  think  the  proud  ones, 
Who,  in  their  coaches,  roll  along  the  turnpike- 
Road,  what  hard  work  'tis  crying  all  day,  "  Knives  and 

Scissors  to  grind,  O  I  " 

^       Tell  me,  Knife-grinder,  how  came  you  to  grind  knives? 
Did  some  rich  man  tyrannically  use  you? 
Was  it  the  squire  or  parson  of  the  parish. 

Or  the  attorney? 


400  JOHN  WILSON.  Chap.  XXI 

Was  it  the  squire,  for  killing  of  his  game?  or 
Covetous  parson,  for  his  tithes  distraining? 
Or  roguish  lawyer,  made  you  lose  your  little 

All  in  a  lawsuit? 

(Have  you  not  read  the  Rights  of  Man,  by  Tom  Paine?) 
Drops  of  compassion  tremble  on  my  eyelids. 
Ready  to  fall,  as  soon  as  you  have  told  your 

Pitiful  story. 

Knife-  Grinder. 

Story!  God  bless  you,  I  have  none  to  tell.  Sir; 
Only  last  night,  a-drinking  at  the  Chequers, 
This  poor  old  hat  and  breeches,  as  you  see,  were 

Torn  in  a  scuffle. 

Constables  came  up  for  to  take  me  into 
Custody ;  they  took  me  before  the  justice ; 
Justice  Oldmixon  put  me  in  the  parish 

Stocks  for  a  vagrant. 

I  should  be  glad  to  drink  your  honor's  health  in 
A  pot  of  beer,  if  you  will  give  me  sixpence; 
But,  for  my  part,  I  never  love  to  meddle 

With  politics,  Sir. 

Frien d  of  Hti man ity. 

I  give  thee  sixpence !  I  will  see  thee  hanged  first  — 
Wretch,  whom  no  sense  of  wrongs  can  rouse  to  vengeance  — 
Sordid,  unfeeling,  reprobate,  degraded, 

Spiritless  outcast! 

\^Kicks  ike  Knife-grinder,  overturns  his  ivheel,  and  exit  in 
a  transport  of  republicaji  enthusiasm  and  universal 
fhilanthrofy.'\ 


John  Wilson,     i  785-1854.    (Manual,  p.  469.) 
S18»    From  *'The  City  of  the  Plague." 

Together  will  ye  walk  through  long,  long  streets, 
All  standing  silent  as  a  midnight  church. 
You  will  hear  nothing  but  the  brown-red  grass 
Rustling  beneath  your  feet;  the  very  beating 
Of  your  own  hearts  will  awe  you ;  the  small  voice 
Of  that  vain  bawble,  idly  counting  time. 


A.  D.  1785-1854.  JOHN   WILSON.  401 

Will  speak  a  solemn  language  in  the  desert. 

Look  up  to  Heaven,  and  there  the  sultrj  clouds, 

Still  threatening  thunder,  lower  with  grim  delight^ 

As  if  the  Spirit  of  the  Plague  dwelt  there, 

Darkening  the  city  with  the  shadows  of  death. 

Know  ye  that  hideous  hubbub.''     Hark,  far  off 

A  tumult  like  an  echo !     On  it  comes. 

Weeping  and  wailing,  shrieks  and  groaning  prayer; 

And,  louder  than  all,  outrageous  blasphemy. 

The  passing  storm  hath  left  the  silent  streets. 

But  are  these  houses  near  you  tenantless.'' 

Over  your  heads,  from  a  window,  suddenly 

A  ghastly  face  is  thrust,  and  yells  of  death 

With  voice  not  human.     Who  is  he  that  flies, 

As  if  a  demon  dogged  him  on  his  path  ? 

With  ragged  hair,  white  face,  and  bloodshot  eyes, 

Raving,  he  rushes  past  you;  till  he  falls, 

As  if  struck  by  lightning,  down  upon  the  stones, 

Or,  in  blind  madness,  dashed  against  the  wall, 

Sinks  backward  into  stillness.     Stand  aloof. 

And  let  the  Pest's  triumphant  chariot 

Have  open  way  advancing  to  the  tomb. 

See  how  he  mocks  the  pomp  and  pageantry 

Of  earthly  kings  !  a  miserable  cart. 

Heaped  up  with  human  bodies;  dragged  along 

By  pale  steeds,  skeleton-anatomies  I 

And  onwards  urged  by  a  wan  meagre  wretch, 

Doomed  never  to  return  froin  the  foul  pit. 

Whither,  with  oaths,  he  drives  his  load  of  horror. 

Would  you  look  in.?     Gray  hairs  and  golden  tresses, 

Wan  shrivelled  cheeks  that  have  not  smiled  for  years. 

And  many  a  rosy  visage  smiling  still; 

Bodies  in  the  noisome  weeds  of  beggary  wrapped. 

With  age  decrepit,  and  wasted  to  the  bone; 

And  youthful  frames,  august  and  beautiful. 

In  spite  of  mortal  pangs,  —  there  lie  they  all, 

Embraced  in  ghastliness !     But  look  not  long, 

For  haply,  'mid  the  faces  glimmering  there. 

The  well-known  cheek  of  some  beloved  friend 

Will  meet  thy  gaze,  or  some  small  snoAv-white  hand. 

Bright  with  the  ring  that  holds  her  lover's  hair. 

Let  me  sit  down  beside  you.     I  am  faint 

Talking  of  horrors  that  I  looked  upon 

At  last  without  a  shudder. 

26 


402  JOHN  QIBSON  LOCKHABT.  Chap.  XXL 

^  John  Gibson  Lockhart.     1794- 1854. 

310,   Zara's  Ear-Rings.^ 

"  My  ear-rings  !  my  ear-rings  !  they've  dropped  into  the  well, 

And  what  to  say  to  Mu9a,  I  cannot,  cannot  tell."  — 

'Twas  thus,  Granada's  fountain  by,  spoke  Albuharez'  daughter,  — 

*'  The  well  is  deep,  far  down  they  lie,  beneath  the  cold  blue  water  — 

To  me  did  Mu^a  give  them,  when  he  spake  his  sad  farewell, 

And  what  to  say  when  he  comes  back,  alas!  I  cannot  tell. 

"  My  ear-rings  !  my  ear-rings  !  thej^  were  pearls  in  silver  set, 
That  when  my  Moor  was  far  away,  I  ne'er  should  him  forget. 
That  I  ne'er  to  other  tongue  should  list,  nor  smile  on  other's  tale. 
But  remember  he  my  lips  had  kissed,  pure  as  those  ear-rings  pale  — 
When  he  comes  back  and  hears  that  I  have  dropped  them  in  the  well, 
O,  what  will  Muqa  think  of  me,  I  cannot,  cannot  tell. 

"  My  ear-rings  !  my  ear-rings  !  he'll  say  they  should  have  been, 
Not  of  pearl  and  silver,  but  of  gold  and  glittering  sheen, 
Of  jasper  and  of  onyx,  and  of  diamond  shining  clear. 
Changing  to  the  changing  light,  with  radiance  insincere  — 
That  changeful  mind  unchanging  gems  are  not  befitting  well  — 
Thus  will  he  think,  —  and  what  to  say,  alas!  I  cannot  tell. 

"  He'll  think  when  I  to  market  went,  I  loitered  by  the  way; 

He'll  think  a  willing  ear  I  lent  to  all  the  lads  might  say; 

He'll  think  some  other  lover's  hand  among  my  tresses  noosed, 

From  the  ears  where  he  had  placed  them,  my  rings  of  pearl  unloosed; 

He'll  think  when  I  was  sporting  so  beside  this  inarble  well, 

My  pearls  fell  in,  —  and  what  to  say,  alas  !  I  cannot  tell. 

*'  He'll  say  I  am  a  woman,  and  we  are  all  the  same; 
He'll  say  I  loved  when  he  was  here  to  whisper  of  his  flame  — 
But  when  he  went  to  Tunis  my  virgin  troth  had  broken. 
And  thought  no  more  of  Mu^a,  and  cared  not  for  his  token. 
My  ear-rings!  my  ear-rings !  O,  luckless,  luckless  well! 
For  what  to  say  to  Mu^a,  alas !  I  cannot  tell. 

*'  I'll  tell  the  truth  to  Mu^a,  and  I  hope  he  will  believe  — 

That  I  have  thought  of  him  at  morning,  and  thought  of  him  at  eve 

That  musing  on  my  lover,  when  down  the  sun  was  gone, 

His  ear-rings  in  my  hand  I  held,  by  the  fountain  all  alone : 

And  that  my  mind  was  o'er  the  sea,  when  from  my  hand  they  fell, 

And  that  deep  his  love  lies  in  my  heart,  us  they  lie  in  the  well." 

1  A  Moorish  Ballad. 


A.  D.  1790-1827.  ROBERT  POLLOK.  403 

Robert  Pollok.     i  790-1827.     (Manual,  p.  433.) 
From  "The  Course  of  Time." 

320*     The    Genius    of    Byron. 

He  touched  his  harp,  and  nations  heard,  entranced; 

As  some  vast  river  of  unfailing  source, 

Rapid,  exhaustless,  deep,  his  numbers  flowed, 

And  oped  new  fountains  in  the  human  heart. 

Where  Fancy  halted,  weary  in  her  flight. 

In  other  men,  his,  fresh  as  morning,  rose. 

And  soared  untrodden  heights,  and  seemed  at  home. 

Where  angels  bashful  looked.     Others,  though  great, 

Beneath  their  argument  seemed  struggling  whiles; 

He,  from  above  descending,  stooped  to  touch 

The  loftiest  thought;  and  proudly  stooped,  as  though 

It  scarce  deserved  his  verse.     With  Nature's  self 

He  seemed  an  old  acquaintance,  free  to  jest 

At  will  with  all  her  glorious  majesty. 

He  laid  his  hand  upon  "  the  Ocean's  inane," 

And  played  familiar  with  his  hoary  locks  ; 

Stood  on  the  Alps,  stood  on  the  Apennines, 

And  with  the  thunder  talked  as  friend  to  friend; 

And  wove  his  garland  of  the  lightning's  wing, 

In  sportive  twist,  the  lightning's  fiery  wing, 

Which,  as  the  footsteps  of  the  dreadful  God, 

Marching  upon  the  storm  in  vengeance,  seemed ; 

Then  turned,  and  with  the  grasshopper,  who  sung 

His  evening  song  beneath  his  feet,  conversed. 

Suns,  moons,  and  stars,  and  clouds,  his  sisters  were; 

Rocks,  mountains,  meteors,  seas,  and  winds,  and  storms, 

His  brothers,  younger  brothers,  whom  he  scarce 

As  equals  deemed.     All  passions  of  all  men, 

The  wild  and  tame,  the  gentle  and  severe ; 

All  thoughts,  all  maxims,  sacred  and  profane; 

All  creeds,  all  seasons,  Time,  Eternity; 

All  that  was  hated,  and  all  that  was  dear, 

All  that  was  hoped,  all  that  was  feared,  by  man, 

He  tossed  about,  as  tempest-withered  leaves ; 

Then,  smiling,  looked  upon  the  wreck  he  made. 

With  terror  now  he  froze  the  cowering  blood, 

And  now  dissolved  the  heart  in  tenderness; 

Yet  would  not  tremble,  would  not  weep  himself; 

But  back  into  his  soul  retired,  alone. 

Dark,  sullen,  proud,  gazing  contemptuously 

On  hearts  and  passions  prostiatc  at  his  feet. 


404  FELICIA   DOROTHEA  HEMANS.        Chap.  XXI. 

Felicia  Dorothea  Hemans.    1793-1S35.    (Manual,  p.  432.) 

321*   The  Treasures  of  the  Deep. 

What  hidest  thou  in  thy  treasure-caves  and  cells, 
Thou  hollow-sounding  and  mysterious  Main?  — 
Pale  glistening  pearls,  and  rainbow-colored  shells, 
Bright  things  which  gleam  unrecked  of,  and  in  vain. — 
Keep,  keep  thy  riches,  melancholy  Sea ! 
We  ask  not  such  from  thee. 

Yet  more,  the  Depths  have  more!     What  wealth  untold 
P^ar  down,  and  shining  through  their  stillness,  lies! 
Thou  hast  the  starry  gems,  the  burning  gold, 
Won  from  ten  thousand  royal  Argosies.  — 
Sweep  o'er  thy  spoils,  thou  wild  and  wrathful  Main! 
Earth  claims  not  these  again  ! 

Yet  more,  the  Depths  have  more !     Thy  waves  have  rolled 
Above  the  cities  of  a  world  gone  by ! 
Sand  hath  filled  up  the  palaces  of  old, 
Sea-weed  o'ergrown  the  halls  of  revelry ! 
Dash  o'er  them,  Ocean!  in  thy  scornful  play  — 
Man  yields  them  to  decay ! 

Yet  more!  the  Billows  and  the  Depths  have  more! 
High  hearts  and  brave  are  gathered  to  thy  breast! 
They  hear  not  now  the  booming  waters  roar, 
The  battle-thunders  will  not  break  their  rest;  — 
Keep  thy  red  gold  and  gems,  thou  stormy  grave  — 
Give  back  the  true  and  brave ! 

Give  back  the  lost  and  lovely!  those  for  whom 
The  place  was  kept  at  board  and  hearth  so  long, 
The  prayer  went  up  through  midnight's  breathless  gloom, 
And  the  vain  yearning  woke  'midst  festal  song! 
Hold  fast  thy  buried  isles,  thy  towers  o'erthrown,  — 
But  all  is  not  thine  own! 

To  thee  the  love  of  woman  hath  gone  down. 
Dark  flow  thy  tides  o'er  manhood's  noble  head, 
O'er  youth's  bright  locks  and  beauty's  flowery  crown  :  — 
Yet  must  thou  hear  a  voice  —  Restore  the  Dead  ! 
Earth  shall  reclaim  her  precious  things  from  thee  — 
Restore  the  Dead,  thou  Sea  I 


A..  D.  1798-1845.  THOMAS  HOOD.  405 

Thomas  Hood,     i 798-1845.     (Manual,  p.  434.) 
322,   The  Bridge  of  Sighs. 

One  more  unfortunate, 

Weary  of  breath, 
Rashly  importunate. 

Gone  to  her  death ! 

Take  her  up  tenderly, 

Lift  her  with  care. 
Fashioned  so  slenderly, 

Young,  and  so  fair. 

Look  at  her  garments 
Clinging  like  cerements; 

Whilst  the  wave  constantly 
Drips  from  her  clothing; 

Take  her  up  instantly. 
Loving,  not  loathing. 

Touch  her  not  scornfully ; 
Think  of  her  mournfully, 

Gently,  and  humanly; 
Not  of  the  stains  of  her; 
All  that  remains  of  her 

Now  is  pure  womanly. 

Make  no  deep  scrutiny 
Into  her  mutiny 

Rash  and  undutiful; 
Pa!^t  all  dishonor. 
Death  has  left  on  her 

Only  the  beautiful. 

Still,  for  all  slips  of  hers, 

One  of  Eve's  family, 
Wipe  those  poor  lips  of  hers. 

Oozing  so  clammily. 

Loop  up  her  tresses. 

Escaped  from  the  comb, 
Her  fair  auburn  tresses. 
Whilst  wonderment  guesses. 

Where  was  her  home? 

Who  was  her  father? 

Who  was  her  mother? 


406  THOMJS  HOOD.  Chap.  XXL 

Had  she  a  sister? 

Had  she  a  brother? 
Or  was  there  a  dearer  one 
Still,  or  a  nearer  one 

Yet,  than  all  other? 

Alas  !  for  the  rarity 
Of  Christian  charity 

Under  the  sun  ! 
O  !  it  was  pitiful  — 
Near  a  whole  city  full, 

Home  had  she  none  1 

Sisterlj',  brotherly, 
Fatherly,  motherly, 

Feelings  had  changed; 
Love,  by  harsh  evidence 
Thrown  from  its  eminence, 
Even  God's  providence 

Seeming  estranged. 

When  the  lamps  quiver 
So  far  in  the  river. 

With  many  a  light 
From  many  a  casement, 
From  garret  to  basement, 
She  stood,  with  amazement, 

Houseless  by  night. 

The  bleak  wind  of  March 

Made  her  tremble  and  shiver, 
'  But  not  the  dark  arch. 

Or  the  black  flowing  river. 
Mad,  from  life's  history, 
Glad,  to  death's  mystery, 

Swift  to  be  hurled 
Anywhere !  anywhere 

Out  of  the  world! 

In  she  plunged  boldly, 
No  matter  how  coldly 

The  rough  river  ran ; 
Over  the  brink  of  it, 
Picture  it  —  think  of  it. 

Dissolute  man ! 
Lave  in  it — drink  of  it 

Then,  if  you  can. 


A.  1).  1798-1845.  THOMAS   HOOD.  40: 

Take  her  up  tenderly, 

Lift  her  with  care, 
Fashioned  so  slenderly, 

Young,  and  so  fair. 

Ere  her  limbs  frigidly 
Stiffen  too  rigidly, 

Decently,  kindly 
Smooth  and  compose  them ; 
And  her  eyes,  close  them, 

Staring  so  blindly! 

Dreadfully  staring 

Through  muddy  impurity, 
As  when  with  the  daring, 
Last  look  of  despairing, 

Fixed  on  futurity. 

Perishing  gloomily, 
Spurned  by  contumely, 
Bold  inhumanity. 
Burning  insanity. 

Into  her  rest; 
Cross  her  hands  humbly, 
As  if  praying  dumbly, 

Over  her  breast! 
Owning  her  weakness. 

Her  evil  behavior, 
And  leaving,  with  meekness, 

Her  sins  to  her  Saviour. 


323,    The  Death-Bed. 

We  watched  her  breathing  through  the  night. 

Her  breathing  soft  and  low. 
As  in  her  breast  the  wave  of  life 

Kept  surging  to  and  fro. 

So  silently  we  seemed  to  speak, 

So  slowly  moved  about. 
As  we  had  lent  her  half  our  powers 

To  eke  her  being  out. 


'& 


Our  very  hopes  belied  our  fears, 
Our  fears  our  hopes  belied,  — 

We  thought  her  dying  when  she  slept. 
And  sleeping  when  she  died. 


408  THOMAS   BABINGTON  MACAVLAY.    Chap,  XXL 

For  when  the  morn  came,  dim  and  sad, 

And  chill  with  early  showers, 
Her  quiet  eyelids  closed  —  she  had 

Another  morn  than  ours. 


Elizabeth  Barrett  Browning. 1861.    (Manual, 

P-  435-) 
324,   Cowper's  Grave. 

It  is  a  place  where  poets  crowned  may  feel  the  heart's  decaying, 

It  is  a  place  where  happy  saints  may  weep  amid  their  praying; 

Yet  let  the  grief  and  humbleness  as  low  as  silence  languish, 

Earth  surely  now  may  give  her  calm  to  whom  she  gave  her  anguish. 

O  poets!  from  a  maniac's  tongue,  was  poured  the  deathless  singing; 

O  Christians  !  at  your  cross  of  hope,  a  hopeless  hand  was  clinging; 

O  men !  this  man  in  brotherhood  your  weary  paths  beguiling. 

Groaned  inly  while  he  taught  you  peace,  and  died  while  ye  were  smiling. 

And  now  what  time  ye  all  may  read  through  dimming  tears  his  story, 

How  discord  on  the  music  fell,  and  darkness  on  the  glory; 

And  how,   when,   one  by  one,  sweet   sounds   and  wandering  lights 

departed, 
He  wore  no  less  a  loving  face,  because  so  broken-hearted. 
He  shall  be  strong  to  sanctify  the  poet's  high  vocation. 
And  bow  the  meekest  Christian  down  in  meeker  adoration ; 
Nor  ever  shall  he  be,  in  praise,  by  wise  or  good  forsaken; 
Named  softly  as  the  household  name  of  one  whom  God  hath  taken ! 


Thomas  Babington  Macaulay.     1S00-1859. 

32S,   The  Battle  of  Ivry.' 

[Henry  the  Fourth,  on  his  accession  to  the  French  crown,  was  op- 
posed by  a  large  part  of  his  subjects,  under  the  Duke  of  Mayenne, 
with  the  assistance  of  Spain  and  Savoy.  In  March,  1590,  he  gained  a 
decisive  victory  over  that  party  at  Ivry.  Before  the  battle,  he  ad- 
dressed his  troops,  "  My  children,  if  you  lose  sight  of  your  colors, 
rally  to  my  white  plume — you  will  always  find  it  in  the  path  to  honor 
and  glory."  His  conduct  was  answerable  to  his  promise.  Nothing 
could  resist  his  impetuous  valor,  and  the  Leaguers  underwent  a  total 
and  bloody  defeat.  In  the  midst  of  the  rout,  Henry  followed,  crying, 
"  Save  the  French  !  "  and  his  clemency  added  a  number  of  the  enemies 
to  his  own  army.] 

Now  glory  to  the  Lord  of  Hosts,  from  whom  all  glories  are  I 
And  glory  to  our  Sovereign  Liege,  King  Henry  ol  Navarre! 

I  I'rououuced  E-vree.     Ivjy-U-Bataillc  is  in  tlvc  JJcpartmcut  of  Euro,  iscvcutctu  miles  ijouth-easl  of 
Evrcux. 


A.  D.  1 800-1 859.     THOMA  S  BASING  TON  MA  CA  ULA  T,         409 


-<-5 


Now  let  there  be  the  merry  sound  of  music  and  the  dance 

Through  thy  cornfields  green,   and  sunny  vines,  O  pleasant  land  o( 

France. 
And  thou,  Rochelle,  our  own  Rochelle,  proud  city  of  the  waters, 
Again  let  rapture  light  the  eyes  of  all  thy  mourning  daughters. 
As  thou  wert  constant  in  our  ills,  be  joyous  in  our  joy, 
For  cold,  and  stiff,  and  still  are  they  who  wrought  thy  walls  annoy. 
Hurrah !  hurrah  !  a  single  field  hath  turned  the  chance  of  war; 
Hurrah!  hurrah  !  for  Ivry,  and  King  Henry  of  Navarre. 

O,  how  our  hearts  were  beating,  when  at  the  dawn  of  day, 

We  saw  the  army  of  the  League  drawn  out  in  long  array; 

With  all  its  priest-led  citizens,  and  all  its  rebel  peers, 

And  Appenzel's  stout  infantry,  and  Egmont's  Flemish  spears. 

There  rode  the  brood  of  false  Lorraine,  the  curses  of  our  land ! 

And  dark  Mayenne  was  in  the  midst,  a  truncheon  in  his  hand; 

And,  as  we  looked  on  them,  we  thought  of  Seine's  empurpled  flood, 

And  good  Coligni's  hoary  hair  all  dabbled  with  his  blood; 

And  we  cried  unto  the  living  God,  who  rules  the  fate  of  war, 

To  fight  for  his  own  holy  Name  and  Henry  of  Navarre. 

The  king  is  come  to  marshal  us,  in  all  his  armor  drest. 

And  he  has  bound  a  snow-white  plume  upon  his  gallant  crest; 

He  looked  upon  his  people,  and  a  tear  was  in  his  eye; 

He  looked  upon  the  traitors,  and  his  glance  was  stern  and  high. 

Right  graciously  he  smiled  on  us,  as  rolled  from  wing  to  wing, 

Down  all  our  line,  in  deafening  shout,  "God  save  our  lord,  the  King  I 

And  if  my  standard-bearer  fall,  as  fall  full  well  he  may,  — 

For  never  saw  I  promise  yet  of  such  a  bloody  fray,  — 

Press  where  ye  see  my  white  plume  shine,  amidst  the  ranks  of  war, 

And  be  your  oriflamme,  to-day,  the  helmet  of  Navarre." 

Hurrah  !  the  foes  are  moving!     Hark  to  the  mingled  din 

Of  fife,  and  steed,  and  trump,  and  drum,  and  roaring  cuiverin ! 

The  fiery  Duke  is  pricking  fast  across  Saint  Andre's  plain, 

With  all  the  hireling  chivalry  of  Guelders  and  Almayne. 

Now  by  the  lips  of  those  ye  love,  fair  gentlemen  of  France, 

Charge  for  the  golden  lilies  now,  upon  them  with  the  lance! 

A  thousand  spurs  are  striking  deep,  a  thousand  spears  in  rest, 

A  thousand  knights  are  pressing  close  behind  the  snow-white  crest; 

And  in  they  burst,  and  on  they  rushed,  while,  like  a  guiding  star. 

Amidst  the  thickest  carnage,  blazed  the  helmet  of  Navarre. 

Now  God  be  praised,  the  day  is  ours !     Mayenne  hath  turned  his  rein, 
D'Aumale  hath  cried  for  quarter  —  the  Flemish  Count  is  slain. 
Their  ranks  are  breaking  like  thin  clouds  before  a  Biscay  gale; 
The  field  is  heaped  with  bleeding  steeds,  and  flags,  and  cloven  mail; 
And  then  we  thought  on  vengeance,  and  all  along  our  van, 
•'  Remember  St.  Bartholomew,"  was  passed  from  man  to  man; 


410  THOMAS  BABINGTON  MACAULAY,    Chap.  XXI. 

But  out  spake  gentle  Henry  then,  "  No  Frenchman  is  ray  foe ; 
Down,  down  with  every  foreigner;  but  let  your  brethren  go." 
O,  was  there  ever  such  a  knight,  in  friendship  or  in  war, 
As  our  sovereign  lord,  King  Henry,  the  soldier  of  Navarre! 

Ho,  maidens  of  Vienna  I     Ho,  matrons  of  Lucerne! 

Weep,  weep,  and  rend  your  hair,  for  those  who  never  shall  return  : 

Ho,  Philip,  send  for  charity  thy  Mexican  pistoles. 

That  Antwerp  monks  may  sing  a  mass  for  thy  poor  spearmen's  souls  I 

Ho,  gallant  nobles  of  the  League,  look  that  your  arms  be  bright! 

Ho,  burghers  of  St.  Genevieve,  keep  watch  and  ward  to-night ! 

For  our  God  hath  crushed  the  tyrant,  our  God  hath  raised  the  slave, 

And  mocked  the  counsel  of  the  wise,  and  the  valor  of  the  brave. 

Then  glory  to  his  holy  Name,  from  whom  all  glories  are; 

And  glory  to  our  sovereign  lord.  King  Henry  of  Navarre. 


A.  D.  1717-1797.  HORACE   WALPOLE.  411 


CHAPTER  XXII. 

LETTER   WRITERS   AND    MODERN    ESSAYISTS,    WITH    PROSE 
WRITERS    OF    THE    NINETEENTH    CENTURY. 


Horace  Walpole.     17^7-1797.    (Manual,  p.  437.) 

S20»   Letter  to  Sir  Horace  Mann. 

Arlington  Street,  March  17,  1757. 

Admiral  Bjng's  tragedy  was  completed  on  Monday  —  a  perfect 
tragedy,  for  there  were  variety  of  incidents,  villany,  murder,  and  a 
hero !  His  sufferings,  persecutions,  aspersions,  disturbances,  nay,  the 
revolutions  of  his  fate,  had  not  in  the  least  unhinged  his  mind;  his 
whole  behavior  was  natural  and  firm.  A  few  days  before,  one  of  his 
friends  standing  by  him,  said,  "  Which  of  us  is  tallest?"  He  replied, 
*'  Why  this  ceremony?  I  know  what  it  means  ;  let  the  man  come  and 
measure  me  for  my  coffin."  He  said,  that  being  acquitted  of  coward- 
ice, and  being  persuaded  on  the  coolest  reflection  that  he  had  acted 
for  the  best,  and  should  act  so  again,  he  was  not  unwilling  to  suffer. 
He  desired  to  be  shot  on  the  quarter-deck,  not  where  common  male- 
factors are;  came  out  at  twelve,  sat  down  in  a  chair,  for  he  would  not 
kneel,  and  refused  to  have  his  face  covered,  that  his  countenance 
might  show  whether  he  feared  death;  but  being  told  that  it  might 
frighten  his  executioners,  he  submitted,'  gave  the  signal  at  once,  re- 
ceived one  shot  through  the  head,  another  through  the  heart,  and  fell. 
Do  cowards  live  or  die  thus?  Can  that  man  want  spirit  who  only 
fears  to  terrify  his  executioners?  Has  the  aspen  Duke  of  Newcastle 
lived  thus?  Would  my  Lord  Ilardwicke  die  thus,  even  supposing  he 
had  nothing  on  his  conscience? 

This  scene  is  over!  what  will  be  the  next  is  matter  of  great  uncer- 
tainty. The  new  ministers  are  well  weary  of  their  situation ;  without 
credit  at  court,  without  influence  in  the  House  of  Commons,  under- 
mined everywhere,  I  believe  they  are  too  sensible  not  to  desire  to  be 
delivered  of  their  burden,  which  those  who  increase  yet  dread  to  take 
on  themselves.  Mr.  Pitt's  health  is  as  bad  as  his  situation;  confi- 
dence between  the  other  factions  almost  impossible;  yet  I  believe 
their  impatience  will  prevail  over  their  distrust.  The  nation  expects 
a  change  every  day,  and  being  a  nation,  I  believe,  desires  it;  and  be- 
ing the  English  nation,  will  condemn  it  the  moment  it  is  made.     We 

•  Admiral  Byng,  on  the  moruing  of  liis  execution,  took  his  usual  draught  for  the  scurvy. 


412  WILLIAM  COWFER.  Chap.  XXII. 

are  ti-embling  for  Hanover,  and  the  Duke  [of  Cumberland]  is  going 
to  command  the  army  of  observation.  These  are  the  politics  of  the 
week:  the  diversions  are  balls,  and  the  two  Princes  frequent  them ; 
but  the  eldest  nephew  [afterwards  George  III.]  remains  shut  up  in  a 
ioom,  where,  as  desirous  as  thej  are  of  keeping  him,  I  believe  he  is 
now  and  then  incommode.  The  Duke  of  Richmond  has  made  two 
balls  on  his  approaching  wedding  with  Lady  Mary  Bruce  (Mr.  Con- 
way's^ daughter-in-law):  it  is  the  perfectest  match  in  the  world,, 
youth,  beauty,  riches,  alliances,  and  all  the  blood  of  all  the  kings 
from  Robert  Bruce  to  Charles  II.  They  are  the  prettiest  couple  in 
England,  except  the  father-in-law  and  mother. 

As  I  write  so  often  to  you,  you  must  be  content  with  shorter  letters, 
which,  however,  are  always  as  long  as  I  can  make  them.  This  sum- 
mer will  not  contract  our  correspondence.     Adieu  !  my  dear  Sir. 

2  Lady  Mary  Bruce  was  only  daughter  of  Charles,  last  Earl  of  Ailesbury,  by  Caroline  his  third  wife, 
daughter  of  General  John  Campbell,  afterwards  Duke  of  Argyll.  Lady  Ailesbury  married  to  her  second 
husband,  Colonel  Henry  Seymour  Conway,  only  brother  of  Francis,  Earl  of  Hertford. 


William  Cowper.     i 731-1800.     (Manual,  p.  359.) 
327 •   Letter  to  the  Rev.  John  Newton. 

August  21,  1780. 
The  following  occurrence  ought  not  to  be  passed  over  in  silence,  in 
a  place  where  so  few  notable  ones  are  to  be  met  with.  Last  Wednesday 
night,  while  we  were  at  supper,  between  the  hours  of  eight  and  nine, 
I  heard  an  unusual  noise  in  the  back  parlor,  as  if  one  of  the  hares  was 
entangled,  and  endeavoring  to  disengage  herself.  I  was  just  going  to 
rise  from  table,  when  it  ceased.  In  about  five  minutes,  a  voice  on  the 
outside  of  the  parlor  door  inquired  if  one  of  my  hares  had  got  away. 
I  immediately  rushed  into  the  next  room,  and  found  that  my  poor 
favorite  Puss  had  made  her  escape.  She  had  gnawed  in  sunder  the 
strings  of  a  lattice  work,  with  which  I  thought  I  had  sufficiently  se- 
cured the  window,  and  which  I  preferred  to  any  other  sort  of  blind, 
because  it  admitted  plenty  of  air.  From  thence  I  hastened  to  the 
kitchen,  where  I  saw  the  redoubtable  Thomas  Freeman,  who  told  me, 
that  having  seen  her,  just  after  she  had  dropped  into  the  street,  he 
attempted  to  cover  her  with  his  hat,  but  she  screamed  out,  and  leaped 
directly  over  his  head.  I  then  desired  him  to  pursue  as  fast  as  possi- 
ble, and  added  Richard  Coleman  to  the  chase,  as  being  nimbler,  and 
carrying  less  weight  than  Thomas ;  not  expecting  to  see  her  again, 
but  desirous  to  learn,  if  possible,  what  became  of  her.  In  something 
less  than  an  hour,  Richard  returned,  almost  breathless,  with  the  fol- 
lowing account.  That  soon  after  he  began  to  run,  he  left  Tom  behind 
him,  and  came  in  sight  of  a  most  numerous  hunt  of  men,  women, 
children,  and  dogs;  that  he  did  his  best  to  keep  back  the  dogs,  and 
presently  outstripped  the  crowd,  so  that  the  race  was  at  last  disputed 
between  himself  and  Puss;  —  she  ran  right  through  the  town,  and 


A.  D.  1731-1800.  WILLIAM  COWPEU.  413 

down  the  lane  that  leads  to  Dropshort;  a  little  before  she  came  to  the 
house,  he  got  the  start  and  turned  her;  she  pushed  for  the  town 
again,  and  soon  after  she  entered  it,  sought  shelter  in  Mr.  Wagstaff's 
tanyard,  adjoining  to  old  Mr.  Drake's.  Sturges's  harvest  men  were 
at  supper,  and  saw  her  from  the  opposite  side  of  the  way.  There  she 
encountered  the  tanpits  full  of  water;  and  while  she  was  struggling 
out  of  one  pit,  and  plunging  into  another,  and  almost  drowned,  one 
of  the  men  drew  her  out  by  the  ears,  and  secured  her.  She  was  then 
well  washed  in  a  bucket,  to  get  the  lime  out  of  her  coat,  and  brought 
home  in  a  sack  at  ten  o'clock. 

This  frolic  cost  us  four  shillings,  but  you  may  believe  we  did  not 
grudge  a  farthing  of  it.  The  poor  creature  received  only  a  little  hurt 
in  one  of  her  claws,  and  in  one  of  her  ears,  and  is  now  almost  as  well 
as  ever. 

I  do  not  call  this  an  answer  to  your  letter,  but  such  as  it  is  I  send  it, 
presuming  upon  that  interest  which  I  know  you  take  in  my  minutest 
concerns,  which  I  cannot  express  better  than  in  the  words  of  Terence 
a  little  varied  —  Nihil  mei  a  te  alienuin  putas. 

Yours,  my  dear  friend, 

W.  C. 


32St   To  Lady  Hesketh. 

Feb.  27, 1786. 
My  Dearest  Cousin, 

*  *  *  *  Now  for  Homer,  and  the  matters  to  Homer  appertain- 
ing. Sephus  and  I  are  of  opinions  perfectly  different  on  the  subject 
of  such  an  advertisement  as  he  recommends.  The  only  proper  part 
for  me  is  not  to  know  that  such  a  man  as  Pope  has  ever  existed.  I  am 
so  nice  upon  this  subject  that  in  that  note  in  the  specimen,  in  which 
I  have  accounted  for  the  anger  of  Achilles  (which,  I  believe,  I  may 
pay  myself  the  compliment  to  say  was  never  accounted  for  before),  I 
have  not  even  so  much  as  hinted  at  the  perplexity  in  which  Pope  was 
entangled  when  he  endeavored  to  explain  it,  nor  at  the  preposterous 
and  blundering  work  that  he  has  made  with  it.  No,  my  dear,  as  I 
told  you  once  before,  my  attempt  has  itself  a  loud  voice,  and  speaks 
a  most  intelligible  language.  Had  Pope's  translation  been  good,  or 
had  I  thought  it  such,  or  had  I  not  known  that  it  is  admitted  by  all 
whom  a  knowledge  of  the  original  qualifies  to  judge  of  it,  to  be  a 
very  defective  one,  I  had  never  translated  myself  one  line  of  Homer. 
Dr.  Johnson  is  the  only  modern  writer  who  has  spoken  of  it  in  terms 
of  approbation,  at  least  the  only  one  that  I  have  met  with.  And  his 
praise  of  it  is  such  as  convinces  me,  intimately  acquainted  as  I  am 
with  Pope's  performance,  that  he  talked  at  random,  that  either  he  had 
never  examined  it  by  Homer's,  or  never  since  he  was  a  boy.  For  I 
would  undertake  to  produce  numberless  passages  from  it,  if  need 
were,  not  only  ill  translated,  but  meanly  written.  It  is  not  therefore 
for  me,  convinced  as  I  am  of  the  ♦^ruth  of  all  I  say,  to  go  forth  into  the 


414  WILLIAM  COWPER.  Chap.  XXII. 

world  holding  up  Pope's  translation  with  one  hand  as  a  work  to  be 
extolled,  and  my  own  with  the  other  as  a  work  still  wanted.  It  is 
plain  to  me  that  I  behave  with  sufficient  liberality  on  the  occasion  if, 
neither  praising  nor  blaming  my  predecessor,  I  go  right  forward,  and 
leave  the  world  to  decide  between  us. 

Ndw,  to  come  nearer  to  myself.     Poets,  my  dear  (it  is  a  secret  I 
'-.ay3  lately  discovered),  are  born  to  trouble;  and  of  all  poets,  trans- 
lators of  Homer  to  the  most.     Our  dear  friend,  the  General,  whom  I 
tn.ly  love,  in  his  last  letter  mortified  me  not  a  little.     I  do  not  mean 
bj  suggesting  lines  that  he  thought  might  be  amended,  for  I  hardly 
ever  wrote  fifty  lines  together  that  I  could  not  afterwards  have  im- 
proved, but  by  what  appeared  to  me  an  implied  censure  on  the  whole, 
or  nearly  the  whole  quire  that  I  sent  to  you.     It  was  a  great  work,  he 
said;  —  it  should  be  kept  long  in  hand; — years,  if  it  were  possible  ; 
that  it  stood  in  need  of  much  amendment,  that  it  ought  to  be  made 
worthy  of  me,  that  he  could  not  think  of  showing  it  to  Maty,  that  he 
could  not  even  think  of  laying  it  before  Johnson  and  his  friend  in  its 
present  condition.      Now,  my  dear,   understand  thou  this :  if  there 
lives  a  man  who  stands  clear  of  the  charge  of  careless  writing,  I  am 
that  man.     I  might  prudently,  perhaps,  but  I  could  not  honestly,  ad- 
mit that  charge  :  it  would  account  in  a  way  favorable  to  my  own  ability 
for  many  defects  of  which  I  am  guilty,  but  it  would  be  disingenuous 
and  untrue.     The  copy  which  I  sent  to  you  was  almost  a  new,  I  mean 
a  second,  translation,  as  far  as  it  went.     With  the  first  I  had  taken 
pains,  but  with  the  second  I  took  more.    I  weighed  many  expressions, 
exacted  from  myself  the  utmost  fidelity  to  my  author,  and  tried  all 
the  numbers  upon  my  own  ear  again  and  again.     If  therefore,  after 
all  this  care,   the  execution  be  such  as  in  the  General's  account  it 
seems  to  be,  I  appear  to  have  made  shipwreck  of  my  hopes  at  once. 
He  said,  indeed,  that  the  similes  delighted  him,  and  the  catalogue  of 
the  ships  surpassed  his  expectations :  but  his  commendation  of  so 
small  a  portion  of  the  whole  aff'ected  me  rather  painfully,  as  it  seemed 
to  amount  to  an  implied  condemnation  of  the  rest.     I  have  been  the 
more  uneasy  because  I  know  his  taste  to  be  good,  and  by  the  selec- 
tion that  he  made  of  lines  that  he  thought  should  be  altered,   he 
proved  it  such.     I  altered  them  all,  and  thanked  him,  as  I  could  very 
smcerely,  for  his  friendly  attention.     Now  what  is  the  present  state 
of  my  mind  on  this  subject.?    It  is  this.     I  do  not  myself  think  ill  of 
what  I  have  done,  nor  at  the  same  time  so  foolishly  well  as  to  suppose 
that  it  has  no  blemishes.     But  I  am  sadly  afraid  that  the  General's 
anxiety  will  make  him  extremely  difficult  to  be  pleased  :  I  fear  that  he 
will  require  of  me  more  than  any  other  man  would  require,  or  than  he 
himself  would  require  of  any  other  writer.     What  I  can  do  to  give 
him  satisfaction,  I  am  perfectly  ready  to  do;  but  it  is  possible  for  an 
anxious  friend  to  demand  more  than  my  ability  could  perform.     Not 
a  syllable  of  all  this,  my  dear,   to  him,  or  to  any  other  creature.  — 
Mum  1  Yours  most  truly, 

W^M.    CoWPER. 


Al.  D.  1780-1859.        THOMAS  BE   QUINCE7.  415 

Thomas  de  Quincey.     17S5-1859.     (Manual,  p.  472.) 

From  "The  English  Opium  Eater." 

320*    Interview  with  a  Malay. 

One  day  a  Malay  knocked  at  my  door.  What  business  a  Malaj' 
could  have  to  transact  among  English  mountains,  I  canot  conjecture; 
but  possibly  he  was  on  his  road  to  a  sea-port,  about  forty  miles  dis- 
tant. The  servant  who  opened  the  door  to  him  was  a  young  gir 
born  and  bred  among  the  mountains,  who  had  never  seen  an  Asiatic 
dress  of  any  sort:  his  turban,  therefore,  confounded  her  not  a  little; 
and,  as  it  turned  out  that  his  attainments  in  English  were  exactly  of 
the  same  extent  as  hers  in  the  Malay,  there  seemed  to  be  an  impassa- 
ble gulf  fixed  between  all  communication  of  ideas,  if  either  party  had 
happened  to  possess  any.  In  this  dilemma,  the  girl  recollecting  the 
reputed  learning  of  her  master  (and,  doubtless,  giving  me  credit  for  a 
knowledge  of  all  the  languages  of  the  earth,  besides,  perhaps,  a  few 
of  the  lunar  ones),  came  and  gave  me  to  understand  that  there  was  a 
sort  of  demon  below,  whom  she  clearlj-  imagined  that  my  art  could 
exorcise  from  the  house.  I  did  not  immediately  go  down;  but  when 
I  did,  the  group  which  presented  itself,  arranged  as  it  was  by  accident, 
though  not  very  elaborate,  took  hold  of  my  fancy  and  my  eye  in  a 
way  that  none  of  the  statuesque  attitudes  exhibited  in  the  ballets  at  the 
opera-house,  though  so  ostentatiously  complex,  had  ever  done.  In  a 
cottage  kitchen,  but  panelled  on  the  wall  with  dark  wood  that  from 
age  and  rubbing  resembled  oak,  and  looking  more  like  a  rustic  hall 
of  entrance  than  a  kitchen,  stood  the  Malay — his  turban  and  loose 
trousers  of  dingy  white  relieved  upon  the  dark  panelling :  he  had 
placed  himself  nearer  to  the  girl  than  she  seemed  to  relish,  though 
her  native  spirit  of  mountain  intrepidity  contended  with  the  feelings 
of  simple  awe  which  her  countenance  expressed  as  she  gazed  upon  the 
tiger-cat  before  her.  And  a  more  striking  picture  there  could  not  be 
imagined  than  the  beautiful  English  face  of  the  girl,  and  its  exquisite 
fairness,  together  with  her  erect  and  independent  attitude,  contrasted 
with  the  sallow  and  bilious  skin  of  the  Malaj',  enamelled  or  veneered 
with  mahogany  by  marine  air;  his  small,  fierce,  restless  eyes,  thin 
lips,  slavish  gestures  and  adorations.  Half  hidden  by  the  ferocious- 
looking  Malay  was  a  little  child  from  a  neighboring  cottage,  who  had 
crept  in  after  him,  and  was  now  in  the  act  of  reverting  its  head  and 
gazing  upwards  at  the  turban  and  the  fiery  eyes  beneath  it,  whilst  with 
one  hand  he  caught  at  the  dress  of  the  young  woman  for  protection. 
My  knowledge  of  the  Oriental  tongues  is  not  remai^kably  extensive, 
beinfr,  indeed,  confined  to  two  words  —  the  Arabic  word  for  barlev 
and  the  Turkish  for  opium  (^viadjooii),  which  I  have  learnt  from 
Anastasius.  And  as  I  had  neither  a  Malay  dictionary  nor  even  Ade- 
lung's  Mithridatcs,  which  might  have  helped  me  to  a  few  words,  I 
addressed  him  in  some  lines  from  the  Iliad,  considcrin'T  that,  of  such 


416  THOMAS   DE   QUINCET.  Chap.  XXll 

languages  as  I  possessed,  Greek,  in  point  of  longitude,  came  geographi- 
cally nearest  to  an  Oriental  one.  He  worshipped  me  in  a  most  devout 
manner,  and  replied  in  what  I  suppose  was  Malay.  In  this  way  I 
saved  my  reputation  with  my  neighbors,  for  the  Malay  had  no  means 
of  betraying  the  secret.  He  lay  down  upon  the  floor  for  about  an 
hour,  and  then  pursued  his  journey.  On  his  departure,  I  presented 
him  with  a  piece  of  opium.  To  him,  as  an  Orientalist,  I  concluded 
that  opium  must  be  familiar;  and  the  expression  of  his  face  convinced 
me  that  it  was.  Nevertheless  I  was  struck  with  some  little  consterna- 
tion when  I  saw  him  suddenly  raise  his  hand  to  his  mouth,  and  (in 
the  school-boy  phrase)  bolt  the  whole,  divided  into  three  pieces,  at 
one  mouthful.  The  quantity  was  enough  to  kill  three  dragoons  and 
their  horses,  and  I  felt  some  alarm  for  the  poor  creature;  but  what 
could  be  done.^  I  had  given  him  the  opiutn  in  compassion  for  his 
solitary  life,  on  recollecting  that,  if  he  had  travelled  on  foot  from 
London,  it  must  be  nearly  three  weeks  since  he  could  have  exchanged 
a  thought  with  any  human  being.  I  could  not  think  of  violating  the 
laws  of  hospitality  by  having  him  surged  and  drenched  v/ith  an 
emetic,  and  thus  frightening  him  into  a  notion  that  we  were  going  to 
sacrifice  him  to  some  English  idol.  No,  there  was  clearly  no  help  for 
it;  he  took  his  leave,  and  for  some  days  I  felt  anxious;  but  as  I  never 
heard  of  any  Malay  being  found  dead,  I  became  convinced  that  he 
was  used  to  opium,  and  that  I  must  have  done  him  the  service  1 
designed,  by  giving  him  one  night  of  respite  from  the  pains  of  wan- 
dering. 


330*   Opium  Dreams. 

All  this,  and  much  more  than  I  can  say,  the  reader  must  enter  into, 
before  he  can  comprehend  the  unimaginable  horror  which  these 
dreams  of  Oriental  imagery  and  mythological  tortures  impressed  upon 
me.  Under  the  connecting  feeling  of  tropical  heat  and  vertical  sun- 
lights, I  brought  together  all  creatures,  birds,  beasts,  reptiles,  all 
trees  and  plants,  usages  and  appearances,  that  are  found  in  all  tropi- 
cal regions,  and  assembled  them  together  in  China  or  Hindostan. 

From  kindred  feelings,  I  soon  brought  Egypt  and  her  gods  undei 
the  same  law.  I  was  stared  at,  hooted  at,  grinned  at,  chattered  at,  by 
monkeys,  by  paroquets,  by  cockatoos.  I  ran  into  pagodas,  and  was 
fixed  for  centuries  at  the  summit,  or  in  secret  rooms.  I  was  the  idol; 
I  was  the  priest;  I  was  worshipped;  I  was  sacrificed.  I  fled  from  the 
wrath  of  Brama  through  all  the  forests  of  Asia.  Vishnu  hated  me; 
Seeva  lay  in  wait  for  me.  I  came  suddenly  upon  Isis  and  Osiris.  I 
had  done  a  deed,  they  said,  which  the  ibis  and  the  crocodile  trembled 
at.  Thousands  of  years  I  lived  and  was  buried  in  stone  coffins,  with 
mummies  and  sphinxes,  in  narrow  chambers  at  the  heart  of  eternal 
pyramids.  I  was  kissed,  with  cancerous  kisses,  by  crocodiles,  and  was 
laid,  confounded  with  all  unutterable  abortions,  amongst  reeds  and 
Nilotic  mud. 


A.  D.  1785-1859.        THOMAS  DE   QUINCET.  417 

Some  slight  abstraction  I  thus  attempt  of  my  Oriental  dreams, 
which  filled  me  always  with  such  amazement  at  the  monstrous  scenery, 
that  horror  seemed  absorbed  for  a  while  in  sheer  astonishment. 
Sooner  or  later  came  a  reflux  of  feeling  that  swallowed  up  the  aston- 
ishment, and  left  me,  not  so  much  in  terror,  as  in  hatred  and  abomina- 
tion of  what  I  saw.  Over  every  form,  and  threat,  and  punishment, 
and  dim  sightless  incarceration,  brooded  a  killing  sense  of  eternity 
and  infinity.  Into  these  dreams  only  it  was,  with  one  or  two  slight 
exceptions,  that  any  circumstances  of  physical  horror  entered.  All 
before  had  been  moral  and  spiritual  terrors.  But  here  the  main 
agents  were  ugly  birds,  or  snakes,  or  crocodiles,  especially  the  last. 
The  cursed  crocodile  became  to  me  the  object  of  more  horror  than  all 
the  rest.  I  was  compelled  to  live  with  him,  and  (as  was  always  the 
case  in  my  dreams)  for  centuries.  Sometimes  I  escaped,  and  found 
myself  in  Chinese  houses.  All  the  feet  of  the  tables,  sofas,  &c.,  soon 
became  instinct  with  life  :  the  abominable  head  of  the  crocodile,  and 
his  leering  eyes,  looked  out  at  me,  multiplied  into  ten  thousand  repe- 
titions ;  and  I  stood  loathing  and  fascinated.  So  often  did  this  hideous 
reptile  haunt  my  dreams,  that  many  times  the  very  same  dream  was 
broken  up  in  the  very  same  way.  I  heard  gentle  voices  speaking  to 
me  (I  hear  everything  when  I  am  sleeping),  and  instantly  I  awoke;  it 
was  broad  noon,  and  my  children  were  standing,  hand  in  hand,  at 
my  bedside,  come  to  show  me  their  colored  shoes,  or  new  frocks,  or  to 
let  me  see  them  dressed  for  going  out.  No  experience  was  so  awful  to 
me,  and  at  the  same  time  so  pathetic,  as  this  abrupt  translation  from 
the  darkness  of  the  infinite  to  the  gaudy  summer  air  of  highest  noon, 
and  from  the  unutterable  abortions  of  miscreated  gigantic  vermin  to 
the  sight  of  infancy  and  innocent  human  natures. 

s|;  :fc  3|e  ^  :{c  3):  sf: 

Then  suddenly  would  come  a  dream  of  far  different  character,  —  a 
tumultuous  dream,  —  commencing  with  a  music  such  as  now  I  often 
heard  in  sleep  —  music  of  preparation  and  of  awakening  suspense. 
The  undulations  of  fast-gathering  tumults  were  like  the  opening  of 
the  Coronation  Anthem;  and,  like  t/iat.  gave  the  feeling  of  a  multitu- 
dinous movement,  of  infinite  cavalcades  filing  off,  and  the  tread  of 
innumerable  armies.  The  morning  was  come  of  a  mighty  day  —  a 
day  of  crisis  and  of  ultimate  hope  for  human  nature,  then  suftering 
mysterious  eclipse,  and  laboring  in  some  dread  extremity.  Some- 
where, but  I  knew  not  where  —  somehow,  but  I  knew  not  how  —  by 
some  beings,  but  I  knew  not  by  whom  —  a  battle,  a  strife,  an  agony, 
was  travelling  through  all  its  stages  —  was  evolving  itself,  like  the 
catastrophe  of  some  mighty  drama,  with  which  my  sympathy  was  the 
more  insupportable,  from  deepening  confusion  as  to  its  local  scene, 
its  cause,  its  nature,  and  its  undecipherable  issue.  I  (as  is  usual  in 
dreams,  where,  of  necessity,  we  make  ourselves  central  to  every  move- 
ment) had  the  power,  and  yet  had  not  the  power,  to  decide  it.  I  had 
the  power,  if  I  could  raise  myself  to  will  it;  and  yet  again  had  not  the 
power,  for  the  weight  of  twenty  Atlantics  was  upon  me,  or  the  oppres- 

27 


418  SYDNEY  SMITH.  Chap.  XXIL 

sion  of  inexpiable  guilt.  "Deeper  than  ever  plummet  sounded"  I  lay 
inactive.  Then,  like  a  chorus,  the  passion  deepened.  Some  greater 
interest  was  at  stake,  some  mightier  cause,  than  ever  jet  the  sword 
had  pleaded,  or  trumpet  had  proclaimed.  Then  came  sudden  alarms ; 
hurrjings  to  and  fro,  trepidations  of  innumerable  fugitives;  I  knew  not 
whether  from  the  good  cause  or  the  bad;  darkness  and  lights;  tempest 
and  human  faces;  and,  at  last,  with  the  sense  that  all  was  lost, 
female  forms,  and  the  features  that  were  worth  all  the  world  to  me; 
and  but  a  moment  allowed  —  and  clasped  hands,  with  heart-breaking 
partings,  and  then  —  everlasting  farewells;  and,  with  a  sigh,  such  as 
the  caves  of  hell  sighed  when  the  incestuous  mother  uttered  the  ab- 
horred name  of  Death,  the  sound  was  reverberated  —  everlasting  fare 
wells!  and  again,  and  yet  again  reverberated  —  everlasting  farewells! 
And  I  awoke  in  struggles,  and  cried  aloud,  "  I  will  sleep  no  more ! " 

I        


Sydney  Smith,     i  771-1845.     (Manual,  p.  468.) 

831.   Wit. 

There  is  an  association  in  men's  minds  between  dulness  and  wis- 
dom, amusement  and  folly,  which  has  a  very  powerful  influence  in 
decision  upon  character,  and  is  not  overcome  without  considerable 
difficulty.  The  reason  is,  that  the  outward  signs  of  a  dull  man  and  a 
wise  man  are  the  same,  and  so  are  the  outward  signs  of  a  frivolous 
man  and  a  witty  man ;  and  we  are  not  to  expect  that  the  majority  will 
be  disposed  to  look  to  much  more  than  the  outward  sign.  I  believe 
the  fact  to  be,  that  wit  is  very  seldom  the  only  eminent  quality  which 
resides  in  the  mind  of  any  man  ;  it  is  commonly  accompanied  by  many 
other  talents  of  every  description,  and  ought  to  be  considered  as  a 
strong  evidence  of  a  fertile  and  superior  understanding.  Almost  all 
the  great  poets,  orators,  and  statesmen  of  all  times,  have  been  witty. 
Caesar.  Alexander,  Aristotle,  Descartes,  and  Lord  Bacon,  were  witty 
men ;  so  were  Cicero,  Shakspeare,  Demosthenes,  Boileau,  Pope, 
Dryden,  Fontenelle,  Jonson,  Waller,  Cowley,  Solon,  Socrates,  Dr. 
Johnson,  and  almost  every  man  who  has  made  a  distinguished  figure 
in  the  House  of  Commons  .  .  .  The  meaning  of  an  extraordinary 
man  is,  that  he  is  ei^ht  men,  not  one  man;  that  he  has  as  much  wit 
as  if  he  had  no  sense,  and  as  much  sense  as  if  he  had  no  wit;  that  his 
conduct  is  as  judicious  as  if  he  were  the  dullest  of  human  beings,  and 
his  imagination  as  brilliant  as  if  he  were  irretrievably  ruined.  But 
when  wit  is  combined  with  sense  and  information;  when  it  is  softened 
by  benevolence,  and  restrained  by  strong  principle;  when  it  is  in  the 
hands  of  a  man  who  can  use  it  and  despise  it,  who  can  be  witty,  and 
something  much  better  than  witty,  who  loves  honor,  justice,  decency, 
good-nature,  morality,  and  religion,  ten  thousand  times  better  than 
wit;  —  wit  is  then  a  beaut  *ul  and  delightful  part  of  our  nature.     Tliere 


A.  D.  1771-1845.  SYDNEY  SMITH.  41'J 

is  no  more  interesting  spectacle  than  to  see  the  effects  of  wit  upon 
the  different  characters  of  men  ;  than  to  observe  it  expanding  caution, 
relaxing  dignity,  unfreezing  coldness, — teaching  age,  and  care,  and 
pain,  to  smile, — extorting  reluctant  gleams  of  pleasure  from  melan- 
choly, and  charming  even  the  pangs  of  grief.  It  is  pleasant  to  observe 
how  it  penetrates  through  the  coldness  and  awkwardness  of  society, 
gradually  bringing  men  nearer  together,  and,  like  the  combined  force 
of  wine  and  oil,  giving  every  man  a  glad  heart  and  a  shining  coun- 
tenance. Genuine  and  innocent  wit  like  this  is  surely  the  Jlavor  of 
the  inindl  Man  could  direct  his  ways  by  plain  reason,  and  support 
his  life  by  tasteless  food;  but  God  has  given  us  wit,  and  flavor,  and 
laughter,  and  perfumes,  to  enliven  the  days  of  man's  pilgrimage,  and 
to  "charm  his  pained  steps  over  the  burning  marie." 


33 2  •    From  *'  The  Letters  of  Peter  Plymley." 

I  confess,  it  mortifies  me  to  the  very  quick  to  contrast  with  our 
matchless  stupidity  and  inimitable  folly  the  conduct  of  Bonaparte 
upon  the  subject  of  religious  persecution.  At  the  moment  when  we 
are  tearing  the  crucifixes  from  the  necks  of  the  Catholics,  and  wash- 
ing pious  mud  from  the  foreheads  of  the  Hindoos,  —  at  that  moment 
this  man  is  assembling  the  very  Jews  in  Paris,  and  endeavoring  to 
give  them  stability  and  importance.  I  shall  never  be  reconciled  to 
mending  shoes  in  America;  but  I  see  it  must  be  my  lot,  and  I  will 
then  take  a  dreadful  revenge  upon  Mr.  Perceval,  if  I  catch  him 
preaching  within  ten  miles  of  me.  You  cannot  imagine,  you  say, 
that  England  will  ever  be  ruined  and  conquered;  and  for  no  other 
reason  that  I  can  find,  but  because  it  seems  so  very  odd  it  should  be 
ruined  and  conquered.  Alas  !  so  reasoned,  in  their  time,  the  Austrian, 
Russian,  and  Prussian  Plymleys.  But  the  English  are  brave;  so  were 
all  these  nations.  You  might  get  together  a  hundred  thousand  men 
individually  brave;  but  without  generals  capable  of  commanding  such 
a  machine,  it  would  be  as  useless  as  a  first-rate  man-of-war  manned 
by  Oxford  clergymen  or  Parisian  shopkeepers.  I  do  not  say  this  to 
the  disparagement  of  English  officers  —  they  have  had  no  means  of 
Acquiring  experience;  but  I  do  say  it  to  create  alarm;  for  we  do  not 
aon  ;ar  to  me  to  be  half  alarmed  enough,  or  to  entertain  that  sense  of 
our  danger  which  leads  to  the  most  obvious  means  of  self-defence.  As 
for  the  spirit  of  the  peasantry,  in  making  a  gallant  defence  behind 
hedgerows,  and  through  plate-racks  and  hen-coops,  highly  as  I  think 
of  their  bravery,  I  do  not  know  any  nation  in  Europe  so  likely  to  be 
struck  with  panic  as  the  English;  and  this  from  their  total  unac- 
quaintance  with  the  science  of  war.  Old  wheat  and  beans  blazing  for 
twenty  miles  round;  cart-mares  shot;  sows  of  Lord  Somcrville's 
breed  running  wild  over  the  countr\';  the  minister  of  the  parish 
sorely  wounded;  Mrs.   Plymley  in  fits,  —  all  these  scenes  of  war  ar 


420  SYDNEY  SMITE.  Chap.  XXII. 

Austrian  or  a  Russian  has  seen  three  or  four  times  over;  but  it  is  nov* 
three  centuries  since  an  English  pig  has  fallen  in  a  fair  battle  upon 
English  ground,  or  a  farm-house  been  rifled. 

There  is  a  village  (no  matter  where)  in  which  the  inhabitants,  on 
one  day  in  the  year,  sit  down  to  a  dinner  prepared  at  the  common 
expense:  by  an  extraordinary  piece  of  tyranny  (which  Lord  Ilawkes- 
bury  would  call  the  wisdom  of  the  village  ancestors),  the  inhabitants 
of  three  of  the  streets,  about  a  hundred  years  ago,  seized  upon  the 
inhabitants  of  the  fourth  street,  bound  them  hand  and  foot,  laid  them 
upon  their  backs,  and  compelled  them  to  look  on  while  the  rest  were 
stuffing  themselves  with  beef  and  beer  :  the  next  year,  the  inhabitants 
of  the  persecuted  street  (though  they  contributed  an  equal  quota  of 
the  expense)  were  treated  precisely  in  the  same  manner.  The  tyranny 
grew  into  a  custom  :  and  (as  the  manner  of  our  nature  is)  it  was  con- 
sidered as  the  most  sacred  of  all  duties  to  keep  these  poor  fellows 
without  their  annual  dinner:  the  village  was  so  tenacious  of  this 
practice,  that  nothing  could  induce  them  to  resign  it;  every  enemy 
to  it  was  looked  upon  as  a  disbeliever  in  Divine  Providence,  and  any 
nefarious  churchwarden  who  wished  to  succeed  in  his  election,  had 
nothing  to  do  but  to  represent  his  antagonist  as  an  abolitionist,  in 
order  to  frustrate  his  ambition,  endanger  his  life,  and  throw  the  vil- 
lage into  a  state  of  the  most  dreadful  comm.otion.  By  degrees,  how- 
ever, the  obnoxious  street  grew  to  be  so  well  peopled,  and  its  inhabit- 
ants so  firmly  united,  that  their  oppressors,  more  afraid  of  injustice, 
were  more  disposed  to  be  just.  At  the  next  dinner  they  are  unbound, 
the  year  after  allowed  to  sit  upright,  then  a  bit  of  bread  and  a  glass 
of  water;  till  at  last,  after  a  long  series  of  concessions,  they  are  em- 
boldened to  ask,  in  pretty  plain  terms,  that  they  may  be  allowed  to 
sit  down  at  the  bottom  of  the  table,  and  to  fill  their  bellies  as  well  as 
the  rest.  Forthwith  a  general  cry  of  shame  and  scandal:  "Ten 
years  ago,  were  you  not  laid  upon  your  backs?  Don't  you  remember 
what  a  great  thing  you  thought  it  to  get  a  piece  of  bread  .-*  How 
thankfnl  you  were  for  cheese-parings.-*  Have  you  forgotten  that  mem- 
orable era,  when  the  lord  of  the  manor  interfered  to  obtain  for  you  a 
a  slice  of  the  public  pudding.''  And  now,  with  an  audacity-  only 
equalled  by  your  ingratitude,  you  have  the  impudence  to  ask  for 
knives  and  forks,  and  to  request,  in  terms  too  plain  to  be  mistaken, 
that  you  may  sit  down  to  table  with  the  rest,  and  be  indulged  even 
with  beef  and  beer;  there  are  not  more  than  half  a  dozen  dishes 
which  we  have  reserved  for  ourselves  :  the  rest  has  been  thrown  open 
to  you  in  the  utmost  profusion ;  you  have  potatoes  and  carrots,  suet 
dumplings,  sops  in  the  pan,  and  delicious  toast  and  water,  in  incred- 
ible quantities.  Beef,  mutton,  lamb,  pork,  and  veal  are  ours;  and  if 
you  were  not  the  most  restless  and  dissatisfied  of  human  beings,  you 
would  never  think  of  aspiring  to  enjoj"^  them." 

Is  not  this,  my  dainty  Abraham,  the  very  nonsense,  and  the  very 
insult  which  is  talked  to  and  practised  upon  the  Catholics.?     You  are 


A.  1).  1773-1850.  FRANCIS  JEFFREY.  421 

Burprised  that  men  who  have  tasted  of  partial  justice  should  ask  for 
perfect  justice;  that  he  who  has  been  robbed  of  coat  and  cloak  will 
not  be  contented  with  the  restitution  of  one  of  his  garments.  He 
would  be  a  very  lazj'  blockhead  if  he  were  content ;  and  I  (who,  though 
an  inhabitant  of  the  village,  have  preserved,  thank  God,  some  sense 
of  justice)  most  earnestly  counsel  these  half-fed  claimants  to  persevere 
in  their  just  demands  till  they  are  admitted  to  a  more  complete  share 
of  a  dinner  for  which  they  pay  as  much  as  the  others;  and  if  they  see 
a  little  attenuated  lawyer  squabbling  at  the  head  of  their  opponents, 
let  them  desire  him  to  empty  his  pockets,  and  to  pull  out  all  the  pieces 
of  duck,  fowl,  and  pudding  which  he  has  filched  from  the  public  feast, 
to  carry  home  to  his  wife  and  children. 


Francis  Jeffrey.     1773-1850.     (Manual,  p.  468.) 

333,   English  Literature. 

Our  first  literature  consisted  of  saintly  legends,  and  romances  of 
chivalry,  —  though  Chaucer  gave  it  a  more  national  and  popular 
character,  by  his  original  descriptions  of  external  nature,  and  the 
familiarity  and  gayety  of  his  social  humor.  In  the  time  of  Elizabeth, 
it  received  a  copious  infusion  of  classical  images  and  ideas;  but  it 
was  still  intrinsically  romantic — serious  —  and  even  somewhat  loftv 
and  enthusiastic.  Authors  were  then  so  few  in  number,  that  they 
were  looked  upon  with  a  sort  of  veneration,  and  considered  as  a  kind 
of  inspired  persons ;  —  at  least  they  were  not  yei  so  numerous  as  to 
be  obliged  to  abuse  each  other,  in  order  to  obtain  a  share  of  distinc- 
tion for  themselves  ;  —  and  they  neither  affected  a  tone  of  derision  in 
their  writings,  nor  wrote  in  fear  of  derision  from  others.  They  were 
filled  with  their  subjects,  and  dealt  with  them  fearlessly  in  their  own 
way;  and  the  stamp  of  originality,  force,  and  freedom,  is  consequently 
upon  almost  all  their  productions.  In  the  reign  of  James  I.,  our  liter- 
ature, with  some  few  exceptions,  touching  rather  the  form  than  tJie 
substance  of  its  merits,  appears  to  us  to  have  reached  the  greatest 
perfection'to  which  it  has  yet  attained ;  though  it  would  probably  have 
advanced  still  farther  in  the  succeeding  reign,  had  not  the  great 
national  dissensions  which  then  arose,  turned  the  talent  and  energy 
of  the  people  into  other  channels  —  first,  to  the  assertion  of  their  civil 
rights,  and  afterwards  to  the  discussion  of  their  religious  interests. 
The  graces  of  literature  suffered  of  course  in  those  fierce  contentions ; 
and  a  deeper  shade  of  austerity  was  thrown  upon  the  intellectual 
character  of  the  nation.  Her  genius,  hawever,  though  less  captivat- 
ing and  adorned  than  in  the  happier  days  which  preceded,  was  still 
active,  fruitful,  and  commanding;  and  the  period  of  the  civil  wars, 
besides  the  mighty  minds  that  guided  the  public  councils,  and  were 
absorbed  in  public  cares,  produced  the  giant  powers  of  Taylor,  and 


422  FRANCIS  JEFFREY.  Chap.  XXI T. 

Hobbes,  and  Barrow  —  the  muse  of  Milton  —  the  learning  of  Coke  — 
and  the  ingenuity  of  Cowlev. 

The  Restoration  introduced  a  French  court  —  under  circumstances 
more  favorable  for  the  effectual  exercise  of  court  influence  than  ever' 
before  existed  in  England;  but  this  of  itself  would  not  have  been 
sufficient  to   account  for  the  sudden  change  in  our  literature  which 
ensued.     It  was   seconded  by  causes  of  far  more  general  operation. 
The  Restoration  was  undoubtedly  a  popular  act; — and,  indefensible 
as  the  conduct  of  the  army  and  the  civil  leaders  was  on  that  occasion, 
there  can  be  no  question  that  the  severities  of  Cromwell,  and  the  ex- 
travagances of  the  sectaries,  had  made  republican  professions  hateful, 
and  religious  ardor   ridiculous,  in  the  eyes  of  a  great  proportion  of 
the  people.     All   the  eminent  writers  of  the  preceding  period,  how- 
ever, had  inclined  to  the  party  that  was  now  overthrown;  and  their 
writings  had  not  merely  been    accommodated  to  the  character  of  the 
government  under  which  they  were  produced,  but  were  deeply  imbued 
with   its  obnoxious  principles,   which  were  those  of  their  respective 
authors.     When  the  restraints  of  authority  were  taken  off,  therefore, 
and  it  became  profitable,  as  well  as  popular,  to  discredit  the  fallen 
party,  it  was  natural  that  the  leading  authors  should  affect  a  style  of 
levity  and  derision,  as  most  opposite  to  that  of  their  opponents,  and 
best  calculated  for  the  purposes   they  had  in  view.     The  nation,  too, 
was  now  for  the  first  time  essentially  divided  in  point  of  character 
and  principle,  and  a  much  greater  proportion  were  capable  both  of 
writing  in  support  of  their  own   notions,  and  of  being  influenced  by 
what  was  written.     Add  to  all  this,  that  there  were   real  and  serious 
defects  in  the  stj  le  and  manner  of  the  former  generation;  and  that 
the  grace,  and  brevity,  and  vivacity  of  that  gayer  manner  which  was 
now  introduced  from  France,  were  not  only  good  and  captivating  in 
themselves,  but  had  then   all  the  charms  of  novelty  and  of  contrast; 
and  it  will  not  be  difficult  to  understand  how  it  came  to  supplant  that 
which  had  been  established  of  old  in  the  country,  —  and  that  so  sud- 
denly, that  the  same  generation,  among  whom  Milton  had  been  formed 
to  the  severe  sanctity  of  wisdom  and  the  noble  independence  of  genius, 
lavished  its  loudest  applauses  on  the  obscenity  and  servility  of  such 
writers  as  Rochester  and  Wycherly. 

This  change,  however,  like  all  sudden  changes,  was  too  fierre  and 
violent  to  be  long  maintained  at  the  same  pitch;  and  when  the  wits 
and  profligates  of  King  Charles  had  sufficiently  insulted  the  serious- 
ness and  virtue  of  their  predecessors,  there  would  probably  have  been 
a  revulsion  towards  the  accustomed  taste  of  the  nation,  had  not  tht 
party  of  the  innovators  been  reenforced  by  champions  of  more  tem 
perance  and  judgment.     The  result  seemed  at  one  time  suspendet 
on  the  will  of  Dryden  —  in  whose  individual  person  the  genius  of  th»< 
English  and  of  the   French  school  of  literature   may  be  said  to  hav<^ 
maintained  a  protracted   struggle.     But  the  evil  principle  prevailed 
Carried  by  Hie  original  bent  of  his  genius,  and  his  familiarity  with 


A..  D.  1773-1850.  FRANCIS  JEFFREY.  423 

our  older  models,  to  the  cultivation  of  our  native  style,  to  which  he 
might  have  imparted  more  steadiness  and  correctness  —  for  in  force 
and  in  sweetness  it  was  already  matchless  —  he  was  unluckily  seduced 
by  the  attractions  of  fashion,  and  the  dazzling  of  the  dear  wit  and 
ga}'  rhetoric  in  which  it  delighted,  to  lend  his  powerful  aid  to  the  new 
corruptions  and  refinements ;  and  in  fact,  to  prostitute  his  great  gifts 
to  the  purposes  of  party  rage  or  licentious  ribaldry. 

The  sobriety  of  the  succeeding  reigns  allayed  this  fever  of  profan- 
ity; but  no  genius  arose  sufficiently  powerful  to  break  the  spell  thai 
still  withheld  us  from  the  use  of  our  own  peculiar  gifts  and  faculties. 
On  the  contrary,  it  was  the  unfortunate  ambition  of  the  next  genera- 
tion of  authors,  to  improve  and  perfect  the  new  style,  rather  than  to 
return  to  the  old  one; — and  it  cannot  be  denied  that  they  did  im- 
prove it.  They  corrected  its  gross  indecency  —  increased  its  precision 
and  correctness  —  made  its  pleasantry  and  sarcasm  more  polished  and 
elegant  —  and  spread  through  the  whole  of  its  irony,  its  narration, 
and  its  reflection,  a  tone  of  clear  and  condensed  good  sense,  which 
recommended  itself  to  all  who  had,  and  all  who  had  not  any  relish 
for  higher  beauties. 

This  is  the  praise  of  Qiieen  Anne's  wits  —  and  to  this  praise  they 
are  justly  entitled.  This  was  left  for  them  to  do,  and  they  did  it  well. 
They  were  invited  to  it  by  the  circumstances  of  their  situation,  and 
do  not  seem  to  have  been  possessed  of  any  such  bold  or  vigorous 
spirit,  as  either  to  neglect  or  to  outgo  the  invitation.  Coming  into 
life  immediately  after  the  consummation  of  a  bloodless  revolution, 
eficcted  much  more  by  the  cool  sense  than  the  angry  passions  of  the 
nation,  they  seem  to  have  felt  that  they  were  born  in  an  age  of  reason, 
rather  than  of  feeling  or  fancy;  and  that  men's  minds,  though  con- 
siderably divided  and  unsettled  upon  many  points,  were  in  a  much 
better  temper  to  relish  judicious  argument  and  cutting  satire,  than 
the  glow  of  enthusiastic  passion,  or  the  richness  of  a  luxuriant  imagi- 
nation. To  those  accordingly  they  made  no  pretensions;  but,  writing 
with  infinite  good  sense,  and  great  grace  and  vivacity,  and,  above  all, 
writing  for  the  first  time  in  a  tone  that  was  peculiar  to  the  upper 
ranks  of  society,  and  upon  subjects  that  were  almost  exclusively  inter- 
esting to  them,  they  naturallj-^  figured,  at  least  while  the  manner  was 
new,  as  the  most  accomplished,  fashionable,  and  perfect  writers  which 
the  world  had  ever  seen ;  and  made  the  wild,  luxuriant,  and  humble 
sweetness  of  our  earlier  authors  appear  rude  and  untutored  in  the 
comparison.  Men  grew  ashamed  of  admiring,  and  afraid  of  imitat- 
ing, writers  of  so  little  skill  and  smartness;  and  the  opinion  became 
general,  not  only  that  their  faults  were  intolerable,  but  that  even  their 
beauties  were  puerile  and  barbarous,  and  unworthy  the  serious  regard 
of  a  polite  and  distinguishing  age. 

These,  and  similar  considerations,  will  go  far  to  account  for  the 
celebrity  which  those  authors  acquired  in  their  day;  but  it  is  not 
quite  so  easy  to  explain  how  they  should   have  so  long  retained  their 


424  FRANCIS  JEFFREY  Chai'.  XXIL 

ascendant.     One  cause  undoubtedly  was,  the  real  excellence  of  their 
productions,  in  the  style  which   they  had  adopted.     It  was  hopeless 
to   think  of  suipassing  them   in  that  style;  and,   recommended  as  it 
was,  by  the  felicity  of  their  execution,  it  required   some  courage  to 
depart  from  it,  and   to  recur  to  another,  which  seemed  to  have  been 
so  lately  abandoned  for  its  sake.     The  age  which   succeeded,  too,  was 
not  the  age  of  courage  or  adventure.     There  never  was,  on  the  whole, 
a   quieter  time   than   the  reigns  of  the  two   first    Georges,    and  the 
greater  part  of  that  which  ensued.     There  were  two  little  provincial 
rebellions  indeed,  and  a  fair  proportion  of  foreign  war;  but  there  was 
nothing  to  stir  the  minds  of  the  people  at  large,   to  rouse  their  pas- 
sions,  or  excite  their  imaginations — nothing  like  the  agitations  ol 
the  Reformation  in  the  sixteenth  century,  or  of  the  civil  wars  in  the 
seventeenth.     They  went  on,  accordingly,  minding  their  old  business, 
and  reading  their  old  books,  with  great  patience  and  stupidity.     And 
certainly  there  never  was  so  remarkable  a  dearth  of  original  talent  — 
so  long  an  interreg7ium  of  native  genius —  as  during  about  sixty  years 
in  the  middle  of  the  last  century.     The  dramatic  art  was  dead  fifty 
years    before  —  and   poetry  seemed   verging   to  a   similar  extinction. 
The  few  sparks  that  appeared,  too,  showed  that  the  old  fire  was  burnt 
out,  and  that  the  altar  must  hereafter  be  heaped  with  fuel  of  another 
quality.     Gray,  with   the  talents  rather  of  a  critic  than  a  poet  —  with 
learning,   fastidiousness,  and  scrupulous  delicacy  of  taste,   instead  of 
fire,  tenderness,  or  invention  —  began  and  ended  a  small  school,  which 
we  could   scarcely  have  wished  to  become  permanent,   admirable  in 
many  respects  as  some  of  its  productions  are  —  being  far  too  elaborate 
and  artificial,  either  for  grace  or  for  fluency,  and  fitter  to  excite  the 
admiration  of  scholars,  than  the  delight  of  ordinary  men.     However, 
he  had  the  merit  of  not  being  in  any  degree  French,  and  of  restoring 
to  our  poetry  the  dignitj^  of  seriousness,  and  the  tone  at  least  of  force 
and  energy.     The  Whartons,  both  as  critics  and  as  poets,  were  of  con- 
siderable service  in  discrediting  the  high    pretensions  of  the  former 
race,  and  in  bringing  back  to  public  notice  the  great  stores  and  treas- 
ures of  poetry  which  lay  hid   in  the  records  of  our  older  literature. 
Akenside    attempted    a    sort  of    classical  and   philosophical    rapture, 
which  no  elegance  of  language  could  easily  have  rendered  popular, 
but  which  had  merits  of  no  vulgar  order  for  those  who  could  studj-  it. 
Goldsmith  wrote  with  perfect  elegance  and  beauty,  in  a  style  of  mellow 
tenderness  and  elaborate  simplicity.     He  had  the   harmony  of  Pope 
without  his  quaintness,  and  his  selectness  of  diction  without  his  cold- 
ness and  eternal  vivacity.     And,  last  of  all,  came  Cowper,  with  a  style 
of  complete  originality^  —  and,  for  the  first  time,  made  it  apparent  to 
readers  of  all  descriptions,  that  Pope  and  Addison  were  no  longer  to 
be  the  models  of  English  poetry. 

In  philosophy  and  prose  writing  in  general  the  case  was  nearly 
parallel.  The  name  of  Hume  is  by  far  the  most  considerable  which 
occurs  in  the  period   to   which  we    have    alluded.     But,   though   his 


A.  D.  1775-1834.  CHARLES    LAMB.  425 

thinking  was  English,  his  style  is  entirely  Frer.ch  ;  and  being  naturally 
of  a  cold  fancy,  there  is  nothing  of  that  eloquence  or  richness  about 
him  which  characterizes  the  writings  of  Taylor,  and  Hooker,  and 
Bacon  —  and  continues,  with  less  weight  of  matter,  to  please  in  those 
of  Cowley  and  Clarendon.  Warburton  had  great  powers  ;  and  wrote 
with  more  force  and  freedom  than  the  wits  to  whoin  he  succeeded  — 
but  his  faculties  were  perverted  by  a  paltry  love  of  paradox,  and  ren- 
dered useless  to  mankind  by  an  unlucky  choice  of  subjects,  and  the 
arrogance  and  dogmatism  of  his  temper.  Adam  Smith  was  nearly 
the  first  who  made  deeper  reasonings  and  more  exact  knowledge 
popular  among  us;  and  Junius  and  Johnson  the  first  who  again 
familiarized  us  with  more  glowing  and  sonorous  diction  —  and  made 
us  feel  the  tameness  and  poorness  of  the  serious  style  of  Addison  and 
Swift. 


Charles  Lamb,     i 775-1834.     (Manual,  p.  470.) 

334*   From  the  "Dissertation  upon  Roast  Pig." 

Mankind,  says  a  Chinese  manuscript,  which  my  friend  M.  was 
obliging  enough  to  read  and  explain  to  me,  for  the  first  seventy  thou- 
sand ages  ate  their  meat  raw,  clawing  or  biting  it  from  the  living  ani- 
mal, just  as  they  do  in  Abyssinia  to  this  day.  This  period  is  not 
obscurely  hinted  at  by  their  great  Confucius  in  the  second  chapter  of 
his  Mundane  Mutations,  where  he  designates  a  kind  of  golden  age  by 
the  term  Cho-fang,  literally  the  Cooks*  holiday.  The  manuscript 
goes  on  to  say,  that  the  art  of  roasting,  or  rather  boiling  (which  I 
take  to  be  the  elder  brother)  was  accidentally  discovered  in  the  man- 
ner following.  The  swine-herd,  Ho-ti,  having  gone  out  into  the 
woods  one  morning,  as  his  manner  was,  to  collect  mast  for  his  hogs, 
left  his  cottage  in  the  care  of  his  eldest  son  Bo-bo,  a  great  lubberly 
boy,  who  being  fond  of  playing  with  fire,  as  younkers  of  his  age  com- 
monly are,  let  some  sparks  escape  into  a  bundle  of  straw,  which 
kindling  quickly,  spread  the  conflagration  over  every  part  of  their 
poor  mansion,  till  it  was  reduced  to  ashes.  Together  with  the  cottage 
(a  sorry  antediluvian  make-shift  of  a  building,  you  may  think  it), 
what  was  of  much  more  importance,  a  fine  litter  of  new-farrowed 
pigs,  no  less  than  nine  in  number,  perished.  China  pigs  have  been 
esteemed  a  luxury  all  over  the  East  from  the  remotest  periods  that  we 
read  of.  Bo-bo  was  in  the  utmost  consternation,  as  you  may  think, 
not  so  much  for  the  sake  of  the  tenement,  which  his  father  and  he 
could  easily  build  up  again  with  a  few  dry  branches,  and  the  labor  of 
an  hour  or  two,  at  any  time,  as  for  the  loss  of  the  pigs.  While  he  was 
thinking  what  he  should  say  to  his  father,  and  wringing  his  hands 
over  the  smoking  remnants  of  one  of  those  untimely  sufferers,  an 
odor  assailed  his  nostrils,  unlike  any  scent  which  he  had  before  ex- 
perienced.    What  could  it  proceed  from? —  not  from  the  burnt  cottage 


426  CHARLES  LAMB.  Chap.  XXII, 

—  he  had  smelt  that  smell  before  —  indeed  this  was  by  no  means  the 
first  accident  of  the  kind  which  had  occurred  through  the  negligence 
of  this  unlucky  young  firebrand.  Much  less  did  it  resemble  that  of 
any  known  herb,  weed,  or  flower.  A  premonitory  moistening  at  the 
same  time  overflowed  his  nether  lip.  He  knew  not  what  to  think. 
He  next  stooped  down  to  feel  the  pig,  if  there  were  any  signs  of  life 
in  it.  He  burnt  his  fingers,  and  to  cool  them  he  applied  them  in  his 
booby  fashion  to  his  mouth.  Some  of  the  cruinbs  of  the  scorched 
skin  had  come  away  with  his  fingers,  and  for  the  first  time  in  his  life 
(in  the  world's  life  indeed,  for  before  him  no  man  had  known  it)  he 
tasted  —  crackling !  Again  he  felt  and  fumbled  at  the  pig.  It  did  not 
burn  him  so  much  now,  still  he  licked  his  fingers  from  a  sort  of  habit. 
The  truth  at  length  broke  into  his  slow  understanding,  that  it  was  the 
pig  that  smelt  so,  and  the  pig  that  tasted  so  delicious ;  and,  surrender- 
ing himself  up  to  the  new-born  pleasure,  he  fell  to  tearing  up  whole 
handfuls  of  the  scorched  skin  with  the  flesh  next  it,  and  was  cram- 
ming it  down  his  throat  in  his  beastly  fashion,  when  his  sire  entered 
amid  the  smoking  rafters,  armed  with  retributory  cudgel,  and  finding 
how  aft'airs  stood,  began  to  rain  blows  upon  the  young  rogue's  shoul- 
ders, as  thick  as  hailstones,  which  Bo-bo  heeded  not  any  more  than 
if  they  had  been  flies.  The  tickling  pleasure,  which  he  experienced 
in  his  lower  regions,  had  rendered  him  quite  callous  to  any  incon- 
veniences he  might  feel  in  those  remote  quarters.  His  father  might 
lay  on,  but  he  could  not  beat  him  from  his  pig,  till  he  had  fairly  made 
an  end  of  it,  when,  becoming  a  little  more  sensible  of  his  situation, 
something  like  the  following  dialogue  ensued. 

"You  graceless  whelp,  what  have  you  got  there  devouring.?  Is  it 
not  enough  that  you  have  burnt  me  down  three  houses  with  your  dog's 
tricks,  and  be  hanged  to  you,  but  you  must  be  eating  fire,  and  I 
know  not  what  —  what  have  you  got  there,  I  say.-*" 

"  O,  father,  the  pig,  the  pig,  do  come  and  taste  how  nice  the  burnt 
pig  eats." 

The  ears  of  Ho-ti  tingled  with  horror.  He  cursed  his  son,  and  he 
cursed  himself  that  ever  he  should  beget  a  son  that  should  eat  burnt 

pig- 

Bo-bo,  whose  scent  was  wonderfully  sharpened  since  morning,  soon 

raked  out  another  pig,  and  fairly  rending  it  asunder,  thrust  the  lesser 

half  by  main  force  into  the  fists  of  Ho-ti,  still  shouting  out,   "Eat, 

eat,  eat  the  burnt  pig,  father,  only  taste  —  O  Lord,"  —  with  such  like 

barbarous  ejaculations,  cramming  all  the  while  as  if  he  would  choke. 

Ho-ti  trembled  every  joint  while  he  grasped  the  abominable  thing, 

wavering  whether  he  should  not  put  his  son  to  death  for  an  unnatural 

young  monster,  when  the  crackling  scorching  his  fingers,  as  it  had 

done  his  son's,  and  applying  the  same  remedy  to  them,  he  in  his  turn 

tasted  some  of  its  flavor,  which,  make  what  sour  mouths  he  would  for 

a  pretence,  proved  not  altogether  displeasing  to  him.     In  conclusion 

(for  the  manuscript  here  is  a  little  tedious)  both  father  and  son  fairlj 


A.  D.  1775-1834.  CHARLES  LAMB.  427 

sat  down  to  the  mess,  and  never  left  off  till  they  had  despatched  all 
that  remained  of  the  litter. 

Bo-bo  was  strictly  enjoined  not  to  let  the  secret  escape,  for  the 
neighbors  would  certainly  have  stoned  them  for  a  couple  of  abom- 
inable wretches,  who  could  think  of  improving  upon  the  good  meat 
which  God  had  sent  them.  Nevertheless,  strange  stories  got  about. 
It  was  observed  that  Ho-ti's  cottage  was  burnt  down  now  more  fre- 
quently than  ever.  Nothing  but  fires  from  this  time  forward.  Some 
would  break  out  in  broad  day,  others  in  the  night-time.  As  often  as 
the  sow  farrowed,  so  sure  was  the  house  of  Ho-ti  to  be  in  a  blaze ;  and 
Ho-ti  himself,  which  was  the  more  remarkable,  instead  of  chastising 
his  son,  seemed  to  grow  more  indulgent  to  him  than  ever.  At  length 
they  were  watched,  the  terrible  mystery  discovered,  and  father  and 
son  summoned  to  take  their  trial  at  Pekin,  then  an  inconsiderable 
assize  town.  Evidence  was  given,  the  obnoxious  food  itself  produced 
in  court,  and  verdict  about  to  be  pronounced,  when  the  foreman  of 
the  jury  begged  that  some  of  the  burnt  pig,  of  which  the  culprits  stood 
accused,  might  be  handed  into  the  box.  He  handled  it,  and  they  all 
handled  it,  and  burning  their  fingers,  as  Bo-bo  and  his  father  had 
done  before  them,  and  nature  prompting  to  each  of  them  the  same 
remedy,  against  the  face  of  all  the  facts,  and  the  clearest  charge  which 
ludge  had  ever  given,  — to  the  surprise  of  the  whole  court,  townsfolk, 
strangers,  reporters,  and  all  present,  —  without  leaving  the  box,  or 
any  manner  of  consultation  whatever,  they  brought  in  a  simultaneous 
verdict  of  Not  Guilty. 

The  judge,  who  was  a  shrewd  fellow,  winked  at  the  manifest  iniquity 
of  the  decision;  and,  when  the  court  was  dismissed,  went  privily,  and 
bought  up  all  the  pigs  that  could  be  had  for  love  or  money.  In  a  few 
days  his  Lordship's  town  house  was  observed  to  be  on  fire.  The 
thing  took  wing,  and  now  there  was  nothing  to  be  seen  but  fires  in 
every  direction.  Fuel  and  pigs  grew  enormously  dear  all  over  the 
district.  The  insurance  offices  one  and  all  shut  up  shop.  People 
built  slighter  and  slighter  every  day,  until  it  was  feared  that  the  very 
science  of  architecture  would  in  no  long  time  be  lost  to  the  world. 
Thus  this  custom  of  firing  houses  continued,  till  in  process  of  time, 
says  my  manuscript,  a  sage  arose,  like  our  Locke,  who  made  a  discov- 
ery, that  the  flesh  of  swine,  or  indeed  of  any  other  animal,  might  be 
cooked  {burnt,  as  they  called  it)  without  the  necessity  of  consuming  a 
whole  house  to  dress  it.  Then  first  began  the  rude  form  of  a  gridiron. 
Roasting  by  the  string,  or  spit,  came  in  a  century  or  two  later,  I  for- 
get in  whose  dynasty.  By  such  slow  degrees,  concludes  the  manu- 
script, do  the  most  useful,  and  seemingly  the  most  obvious  arts,  make 
their  way  among  mankind. 


428  CHABLES  LAMB.  Chap.  XXIL 


333,   A  Quaker's  Meeting. 

Still-born  Silence !  thou  that  art 

Flood-gate  of  the  deeper  heart ! 

OfTspring  of  a  heavenly  kind  ! 

Frost  o'  the  mouth,  and  thaw  o'  the  mind ! 

Secrecy's  confidant,  and  he 

Who  makes  religion  mystery  ! 

Admiration's  speakingest  tongue ! 

Leave,  thy  desert  shades  among. 

Reverend  hermits'  hallowed  cells, 

Where  retired  devotion  dwells ! 

With  thy  enthusiasms  come. 

Seize  our  tongues,  and  strike  us  dumb.i 

Reader,  wouldst  thou  know  what  true  peace  and  quiet  mean ; 
■wouldst  thou  find  a  refuge  from  the  noises  and  clamors  of  the  multi- 
tude; wouldst  thou  enjoy  at  once  solitude  and  society;  wouldst  thou 
possess  the  depth  of  thy  own  spirit  in  stillness,  without  being  shut 
out  from  the  consolatory  faces  of  thy  species;  wouldst  thou  be  alone, 
and  yet  accompanied;  solitary,  yet  not  desolate;  singular,  yet  not 
without  some  to  keep  thee  in  countenance;  a  unit  in  aggregate;  a 
simple  in  composite?  —  come  with  me  into  a  Quaker's  Meeting. 

Dost  thou  love  silence  deep  as  that  "before  the  winds  were  made?" 
go  not  out  into  the  wilderness,  descend  not  into  the  profundities  of 
the  earth ;  shut  not  up  thy  casements ;  nor  pour  wax  into  the  little 
cells  of  thy  ears,  with  little-faithed  self-mistrusting  Ulysses.  —  Retii'e 
with  me  into  a  Quaker's  Meeting. 

For  a  man  to  refrain  even  from  good  words,  and  to  hold  his  peace, 
it  is  commendable;  but  for  a  multitude,  it  is  great  mastery. 

What  is  the  stillness  of  the  desert,  compared  with  this  place?  what 
the  uncommunicating  muteness  of  fishes?  —  here  the  goddess  reigns 
and  revels.  —  "Boreas,  and  Cesias,  and  Argestes  loud,"  do  not  with 
their  inter-confounding  uproars  more  augment  the  brawl  —  nor  the 
waves  of  the  blown  Baltic  with  their  clubbed  sounds  —  than  their  op- 
posite (Silence  her  sacred  self)  is  multiplied  and  rendered  more  intense 
by  numbers,  and  by  sympathy.  She  too  hath  her  deeps,  that  call 
unto  deeps.  Negation  itself  hath  a  positive  more  and  less;  and  closed 
eyes  would  seem  to  obscure  the  great  obscurity  of  midnight. 

There  are  wounds  which  an  imperfect  solitude  cannot  heal.  By 
imperfect,  I  mean  that  which  a  man  enjoyeth  by  himself.  The  perfect 
is  that  which  he  can  sometimes  attain  in  crowds,  but  nowhere  so  abso- 
lutely as  in  a  Quaker's  Meeting. — Those  first  hermits  did  certainly 
understand  this  principle  when  they  retired  into  Egyptian  solitudes, 
not  singly,  but  in  shoals,  to  enjoy  one  another's  want  of  conversation. 
The  Carthusian  is  bound  to  his  brethren  by  this  agreeing  spirit  of 
incommunicativeness.  In  secular  occasions,  what  so  pleasant  as  to 
be  reading  a  book  through  a  long  winter  evening,  with  a  friend  sitting 
by  —  say,  a  wife  —  he,  or  she,  too  (if  that  be  probable),  reading  an- 

1  Fro-n  "  Poems  of  all  Sorts, '  by  Ri  -hard  Fleckuo,  1653. 


A.  D.  1775-1834.  CHARLES   LAMB  429 

other,  without  interruption  or  oral  communication?  —  can  there  be  no 
sympathy  without  the  gabble  of  words?  —  away  with  this  inhuman, 
shy,  single,  shade-and-cavern-haunting  solitariness.  Give  me,  Master 
Zimmerman,  a  sympathetic  solitude. 

To  pace  alone  in  the  cloisters  or  side  aisles  of  some  cathedral,  time- 
striken  ; 

Or  under  hanging  mountains, 

Or  by  the  fall  of  fountains ; 

is  but  a  vulgar  luxury,  compared  with  that  which  those  enjoy  who 
come  together  for  the  purposes  of  more  complete,  abstracted  solitude. 
This  is  the  loneliness  "to  be  felt."  —  The  Abbey  Church  of  Westmin- 
ster hath  nothing  so  solemn,  so  spirit-soothing,  as  the  naked  walls 
and  benches  of  a  Quaker's  Meeting.  Here  are  no  tombs,  no  inscrip- 
tions, — 

sands,  ignoble  things, 
Dropt  from  the  ruined  sides  of  kings,  — 

but  here  is  something  which  throws  Antiquity  herself  into  the  fore- 
ground—  Silence  —  eldest  of  things  —  language  of  old  Night  —  primi- 
tive Discourser —  to  which  the  insolent  decays  of  mouldering  grandeur 
have  but  arrived  by  a  violent,  and,  as  we  may  say,  unnatural  pro- 
gression. 

How  reverend  is  the  view  of  these  hushed  heads, 

Looking  tranquillity  ! 

******* 

Reader,  if  you  are  not  acquainted  with  it,  I  would  recommend  to 
you,  above  all  church-narratives,  to  read  Sewel's  History  of  the 
Qiiakers.  It  is  in  folio,  and  is  the  abstract  of  the  journals  of  Fox  and 
the  primitive  Friends.  It  is  far  more  edifying  and  affecting  than  any- 
thing you  will  read  of  Wesley  and  his  colleagues.  Here  is  nothing  to 
stagger  you,  nothing  to  make  you  mistrust,  no  suspicion  of  alloy,  no 
drop  or  dreg  of  the  worldly  or  ambitious  spirit.  You  will  here  read 
the  true  story  of  that  much-injured,  ridiculed  man  (who  perhaps  hath 
been  a  by-word  in  your  mouth),  James  Naylor:  what  dreadful  suffer- 
ings, with  what  patience,  he  endured  even  to  the  boring  through  of 
his  tongue  with  red-hot  irons  without  a  murmur;  and  with  what 
strength  of  mind,  when  the  delusion  he  had  fallen  into,  which  they 
stigmatized  for  blasphemy,  had  given  way  to  clearer  thoughts,  he 
could  renounce  his  error  in  a  strain  of  the  beautifullest  humility,  yet 
keep  his  first  grounds,  and  be  a  Quaker  still!  —  so  different  from  the 
practice  of  your  common  converts  from  enthusiasm,  who,  when  they 
apostatize,  apostatize  alU  and  think  they  can  never  get  far  enough 
from  the  society  of  their  former  errors,  even  to  the  renunciation  of 
some  saving  truths,  with  which  they  had  been  mingled,  not  implicated. 

Get  the  Writings  of  John  Woolman  by  heart;  and  love  the  early 
Qiiakers. 

How  far  the  followers  of  these  good  men  in  our  days  have  kept  to 
the  primitive  spirit,  or  in  what  proportion  they  have  substituted 
formality  for   it,  the  Judge  of  Spirits  can  alone  determine.     I  havR 


430  JOHN  FOSTER,  Ciiap.  XXII. 

Been  faces  in  their  assemblies  upon  which  the  dove  sate  visibly  brood- 
ing. Others  again  I  have  watched,  when  my  thoughts  should  have 
been  better  engaged,  in  which  I  could  possibly  detect  nothing  but  a 
blank  inanity.  But  quiet  was  in  all,  and  the  disposition  to  unanimity, 
and  the  absence  of  the  fierce  controversial  workings.  —  If  the  spiritual 
pretensions  of  the  Quakers  have  abated,  at  least  they  make  few  pre« 
tences.  Hypocrites  they  certainly  are  not,  in  their  preaching.  It  is 
seldom  indeed  that  you  shall  see  one  get  up  amongst  them  to  hold 
forth.  Only  now  and  then  a  trembling,  female,  generally  attctent, 
voice  is  heard  —  you  cannot  guess  from  what  part  of  the  meeting  it 
proceeds  —  with  a  low,  buzzing,  musical  sound,  laying  out  a  few  words 
which  "  she  thought  might  suit  the  condition  of  some  present,"  with 
a  quaking  diffidence,  which  leaves  no  possibility  of  supposing  that 
anything  of  female  vanity  was  mixed  up,  where  the  tones  were  so  full 
of  tenderness,  and  a  restraining  modesty.  The  men,  for  what  I  have 
observed,  speak  seldomer.         *         *         *         * 

More  frequently  the  Meeting  is  broken  up  without  a  word  having 
been  spoken.  But  the  mind  has  been  fed.  You  go  away  with  a  ser- 
mon not  made  with  hands.  You  have  been  in  the  milder  caverns  of 
Trophonius;  or  as  in  some  den,  where  that  fiercest  and  savagest  of 
all  wild  creatures,  the  Tongue,  that  unruly  member,  has  strangely 
lain  tied  up  and  captive.  You  have  bathed  with  stillness.  —  O,  when 
the  spirit  is  sore  fretted,  even  tired  to  sickness  of  the  janglings  and 
nonsense-noises  of  the  world,  what  a  balm  and  a  solace  it  is  to  go  and 
seat  yourself,  for  a  quiet  half  hour,  upon  some  undisputed  corner  of  a 
bench  among  the  gentle  Quakers ! 

Their  garb  and  stillness  conjoined,  present  a  uniformity  tranquil 
and  herd-like  —  as  in  the  pasture  —  "  forty  feeding  like  one." 

The  very  garments  of  a  Quaker  seem  incapable  of  receiving  a  soil, 
and  cleanliness  in  thein  to  be  something  more  than  the  absence  of  its 
contrary.  Every  Quakeress  is  a  lily,  and  when  they  come  up  in  bands 
to  their  Whitsun  conferences,  whitening  the  easterly  streets  of  the 
metropolis,  from  all  parts  of  the  United  Kingdom,  they  show  like 
troops  of  the  Shining  Ones. 


John    Foster,     i  770-1 843.     (Manual,  p.  464.) 

From  the  Essay  '*  On  a  Man's  writing  Memoirs  of  Himself." 

33G,   Blessedness  of  a  Virtuous  Character. 

On  the  other  hand,  it  would  be  interesting  to  record,  or  to  hear,  the 
history  of  a  character  which  has  received  its  form,  and  reached  its 
maturity,  under  the  strongest  operations  of  religion.  We  do  not  know 
that  there  is  a  more  beneficent  or  a  more  direct  mode  of  the  divine 
agency  in  any  part  of  the  creation  than  that  which  "  apprehends"  a 
man,  as  apostolic  lang.:age  expresses  it,  amidst  the  unthinking  crowd, 
and  leads  him  into  serious  reflection,  into  elevated  devotion,  into  pro- 


A.  1).  1777-lSo9.  UENRT  EALLAM.  431 

gressive  virtue,  and  finally  into  a  nobler  life  after  death.  When  he 
has  long  been  commanded  hy  this  influence,  he  will  be  happy  to  look 
back  to  its  first  operations,  whether  they  were  mingled  in  early  life 
almost  insensibly  with  his  feelings,  or  came  on  him  with  mighty 
force  at  some  particular  time,  and  in  connection  with  some  assignable 
and  memorable  circumstance,  which  was  apparently  the  instrumental 
cause.  He  will  trace  all  the  progress  of  this  his  better  life,  with  grate- 
ful acknowledgment  to  the  sacred  power  which  has  advanced  him  to 
a  decisiveness  of  religious  habit  that  seems  to  stamp  eternity  on  his 
character.  In  the  great  majority  of  things,  habit  is  a  greater  plague 
than  ever  afflicted  Egypt;  in  religious  character  it  is  a  grand  felicity. 
The  devout  man  exults  in  the  indications  of  his  being  fixed  and  irre- 
trievable. He  feels  this  confirmed  habit  as  the  grasp  of  the  hand  of 
God,  which  will  never  let  him  go.  From  this  advanced  state  he  looks 
with  firmness  and  joy  on  futurity,  and  says,  I  carry  the  eternal  mark 
upon  me  that  I  belong  to  God ;  I  am  free  of  the  universe ;  and  I  am 
ready  to  go  to  any  world  to  which  He  shall  please  to  transmit  me, 
certain  that  everywhere,  in  height  or  depth,  he  will  acknowledge 
me  forever. 


Henry  Hallam.     i  777-1859.     (Manual,  p.  463.) 

From  the  "View  of  the  State  of  Europe  during  the  Mid- 
dle Ages." 

337 1    Evils  produced  by  the  Spirit  of  Chivalry. 

The  principles  of  chivalry  were  not,  I  think,  naturally  productive 
of  many  evils.  For  it  is  unjust  to  class  those  acts  of  oppression  or 
disorder  among  the  abuses  of  knighthood,  which  were  committed  in 
spite  of  its  regulations,  and  were  only  prevented  by  them  from  be- 
coming more  extensive.  The  license  of  times  so  imperfectly  civilized 
could  not  be  expected  to  yield  to  institutions,  which,  like  those  of  re- 
ligion, fell  prodigiously  short  in  their  practical  result  of  the  reforma- 
tion which  they  were  designed  to  work.  Man's  guilt  and  frailty  have 
never  admitted  more  than  a  partial  corrective.  But  some  bad  conse- 
quences may  be  more  fairly  ascribed  to  the  very  nature  of  chivalry. 
I  have  already  mentioned  the  dissoluteness  which  almost  vmavoidably 
resulted  from  the  prevailing  tone  of  gallantry.  And  yet  we  some- 
times find  in  the  writings  of  those  times  a  spirit  of  pure  but  exagger- 
ated sentiment;  and  the  most  fanciful  refinemerrfis  of  passion  are 
mingled  by  the  same  poets  with  the  coarsest  immorality.  An  undue 
thirst  for  military  renown  was  another  fault  that  chivalry  must  have 
nourished;  and  the  love  of  war,  sufficiently  pernicious  in  any  shape, 
was  more  founded,  as  I  have  observed,  on  personal  feelings  of  honor, 
a'-.d  less  on  public  spirit,  than  in  the  citizens  of  free  states.  A  third 
reproach  may  be  made  to  the  character  of  knighthood,  that  it  widened 
the  separation  between  the  different  classes  of  society,  and  confirmed 
that  aristocratical  spirit  of  high  birth,   by  which  the  large  mass  ol 


432  WILLIAM  HAZLITT.  Chap.  XXIL 

mankind  were  kept  in  unjust  degradation.  Compare  the  generosit_y 
of  Edward  III.  towards  Eustace  de  Ribaumont  at  the  siege  of  Calais 
with  the  harshness  of  his  conduct  towards  the  citizens.  This  may  be 
illustrated  by  a  story  from  Joinville,  who  was  himself  imbued  with 
the  full  spirit  of  chivalry,  and  felt  like  the  best  and  bravest  of  his  age. 
He  is  speaking  of  Henry,  Count  of  Champagne,  who  acquired,  says 
he,  very  deservedly,  the  surname  of  Liberal,  and  adduces  the  follow- 
ing proof  of  it.  A  poor  knight  implored  of  him  on  his  knees,  one 
day,  as  much  money  as  would  serve  to  marry  his  two  daughters. 
One  Arthault  de  Nogent,  a  rich  burgess,  willing  to  rid  the  count  of 
this  importunity,  but  rather  awkward,  we  must  own,  in  the  turn  of 
his  argument,  said  to  the  petitioner.  My  lord  has  already  given  away 
so  much  that  he  has  nothing  left.  Sir  Villain,  replied  Henry,  turning 
round  to  him,  you  do  not  speak  truth  in  saying  that  I  have  nothing 
left  to  give,  when  I  have  got  yourself.  Here,  Sir  Knight,  I  give  you 
this  man,  and  warrant  your  possession  of  him.  Then,  says  Joinville, 
the  poor  knight  was  not  at  all  confounded,  but  seized  hold  of  the 
burgess  fast  by  the  collar,  and  told  him  he  should  not  go  till  he  had 
ransomed  himself.  And  in  the  end  he  was  forced  to  pay  a  ransom 
of  five  hundred  pounds.  The  simple-minded  writer,  who  brings  this 
evidence  of  the  Count  of  Champagne's  liberality,  is  not  at  all  struck 
with  the  facility  of  a  virtue  that  is  exercised  at  the  cost  of  others. 


William  Hazlitt.     i 778-1830.     (Manual,  p.  474.) 
From  "  The  Lectures  on  Dramatic  Literature." 

33S,    Influence  of  the  Translation  of  the  Bible  upon 

Literature. 

The  translation  of  the  Bible  was  the  chief  engine  in  the  great  work.. 
It  threw  open,  by  a  secret  spring,  the  rich  treasures  of  religion  and 
morality,  which  had  been  there  locked  up  as  in  a  shrine.  It  revealed 
the  visions  of  the  prophets,  and  conveyed  the  lessons  of  inspired 
teachers  to  the  meanest  of  the  people.  It  gave  them  a  common  inter- 
est in  a  common  cause.  Their  hearts  burnt  within  them  as  they  read. 
It  gave  a  mind  to  the  people,  by  giving  them  cominon  subjects  of 
thought  and  feeling.  It  cemented  their  union  of  character  and  senti- 
ment; it  created  endless  diversity  and  collision  of  opinion.  They 
found  objects  to  employ  their  faculties,  and  a  motive  in  the  magni- 
tude of  the  consequences  attached  to  them,  to  exert  the  utmost  eager- 
ness in  the  pursuit  of  truth,  and  the  most  daring  intrepidity  in  main- 
taining it.  Religious  controversy  sharpens  the  understanding  by  the 
subtlety  and  remoteness  of  the  topics  it  discusses,  and  embraces  the 
will  by  their  infinite  importance.  We  perceive  in  the  history  of  this 
period  a  nervous  masculine  intellect.  No  levity,  no  feebleness,  no 
indifference,  or,  if  there  were,  it  is  a  relaxation  from  the  intense  ac- 
tivity which  gives  a  tone  to  its  genera'  character.    But  there  is  a  grav- 


A.  D.  1788-1856.      SIR   WILLIAM  HAMILTON,  433 

itj  approaching  to  piety;  a  seriousness  of  impression,  a  conscientious 
severity  of  argument,  an  habitual  fervor  and  enthusiasm  in  their 
method  of  handling  almost  every  subject.  The  debates  of  the  school- 
men were  '^harp  and  subtle  enough ;  but  they  wanted  interest  and 
grandeur,  and  were  besides  confined  to  a  few :  they  did  not  affect  the 
general  mass  of  community.  But  the  Bible  was  thrown  open  to  all 
ranks  and  conditions  "  to  run  and  read,"  with  its  wonderful  table  of 
contents  from  Genesis  to  the  Revelation.  Every  village  in  England 
would  present  the  scene  so  well  described  in  Burns's  Cotter's  Satur- 
day Night.  I  cannot  think  that  all  this  variety  and  weight  of  knowl- 
edge could  be  thrown  in  all  at  once  upon  the  mind  of  the  people  and 
not  make  some  impression  upon  it,  the  traces  of  which  might  be  dis- 
cerned in  the  manners  and  literature  of  the  age. 


Sir  William  Hamilton,     i 788-1 S56.     (Manual,  p.  466.) 

From  "The  Discussions  on  Philosophy." 

3S0*   Mathematical  Study  an  insufficient  Discipline. 

Before  entering  on  details,  it  is  proper  here,  once  for  all,  to  pre- 
mise, —  In  the  Jirst  place,  that  the  question  does  not  regard,  the  value 
of  mathematical  science,  considered  in  itself,  or  in  its  objective  re- 
sults, but,  the  utility  of  matketnatical  study,  that  is,  in  its  subjective 
effect,  as  an  exercise  of  mind ;  and  in  the  second,  that  the  expediency 
is  not  disputed,  of  leaving  mathematics,  as  a  coordinate,  to  find  their 
level  among  the  other  branches  of  academical  instruction.  It  is  only 
contended,  that  they  ought  not  to  be  made  the  principal,  far  less  the 
exclusive,  object  of  academical  encouragement.  We  speak  not  now 
of  professional,  but  of  liberal,  education;  not  of  that  which  considers 
the  mind  as  an  instrument  for  the  improvement  of  science,  but  of 
this,  which  considers  science  as  an  instrument  for  the  improvement 
of  mind. 

Of  all  our  intellectual  pursuits,  the  study  of  the  mathematical  sci- 
ences is  the  one,  whose  utility  as  an  intellectual  exercise,  when  car- 
ried beyond  a  moderate  extent,  has  been  most  peremptorily  denied  by 
the  greatest  number  of  the  most  competent  judges ;  and  the  argu- 
ments, on  which  this  opinion  is  established,  have  hitherto  been  evaded 
rather  than  opposed.  Some  intelligent  mathematicians,  indeed,  ad- 
mit all  that  has  been  urged  against  their  science,  as  a  principal  disci- 
pline of  the  mind;  and  only  contend  that  it  ought  not  to  be  extruded 
from  all  place  in  a  scheme  of  liberal  education.  With  these,  there- 
tore,  we  have  no  controversy.  More  strenuous  advocates  of  this 
study,  again,  maintain  that  mathematics  are  of  primary  importance 
as  a  logical  exercise  of  reason ;  but  unable  to  controvert  the  evidence 
jf  its  contracted  and  partial  cultivation  of  the  faculties,  they  endeavor 
to  vindicate  the  study  in  general,  by  attributing  its  evil  influence  to 
some  peculiar  modification  of  the  science ;  and  thus  hope  to  avoid  the 

28 


4;U  THOMAS   CHALMERS.  Chap.  XXII. 

loss  of  the  whole,  by  the  vicarious  sacrifice  of  a  part.  But  here,  un* 
fortunately,  they  are  not  at  one.  Some  are  willing  to  surrender  th^ 
modern  analysis  as  a  gymnastic  of  the  mind.  They  confess,  that  ita 
very  perfection  as  an  instrument  of  discover}'-  unfits  it  for  an  instru- 
ment of  mental  cultivation,  its  formulae  mechanically  transporting 
the  student  with  closed  eyes  to  the  conclusion;  whereas  the  ancient 
geometrical  construction,  they  contend,  leads  him  to  the  end,  more 
circuitously,  indeed,  but  by  his  own  exertion,  and  with  a  clear  con- 
sciousness of  every  step  in  the  procedure.  Others,  on  the  contrary, 
disgusted  with  the  tedious  and  complex  operations  of  geometry^  rec- 
ommend the  algebraic  process  as  that  most  favorable  to  the  powers 
of  generalization  and  reasoning;  for,  concentrating  into  the  narrow- 
est compass  the  greatest  complement  of  meaning,  it  obviates,  they 
maintain,  all  irrelevant  distraction,  and  enables  the  intellect  to  operate 
for  a  longer  continuance,  more  energeticall}',  securely,  and  effectually. 
The  arguments  in  favor  of  the  study  thus  neutralize  each  other;  and 
the  reasoning  of  those  who  deny  it  more  than  a  subordinate  and  par- 
tial utility,  stands  not  only  uncontroverted,  but  untouched  —  not  only 
untouched,  but  admitted.         *         *         *         * 

The  mathematician,  as  already  noticed,  is  exclusively  engrossed 
with  the  deduction  of  inevitable  conclusions,  from  data  passively  re- 
ceived ;  while  the  cultivators  of  the  other  departments  of  knowledge, 
mental  and  physical,  are,  for  the  most  part,  actively  occupied  in  the 
quest  and  scrutiny,  in  the  collection  and  balancing  of  probabilities, 
in  order  to  obtain  and  purify  the  facts  on  which  their  premises  are  to 
be  established.  Their  pursuits,  accordingly,  from  the  mingled  expe- 
rience of  failure  and  success,  have,  to  them,  proved  a  special  logic,  a 
practical  discipline  —  on  the  one  hand,  of  skill  and  confidence,  on  the 
other,  of  caution  and  sobriety :  his^  on  the  contrary,  have  not  only  not 
trained  him  to  that  acute  scent,  to  that  delicate,  almost  instinctive 
tact,  which,  in  the  twilight  of  probability,  the  search  and  discrimina- 
tion of  its  finer  facts  demand;  they  have  gone  to  cloud  his  vision. 
to  indurate  his  touch,  to  all  but  the  blazing  light  and  iron  chain  of 
demonstration,  leaving  him,  out  of  the  narrow  confines  of  his  science, 
either  to  a  passive  credulity  in  any  premises,  or  to  an  absolute  i?icre' 
dulity  in  all. 


Thomas  Chalmers,     i  780-1847.     (Manual,  p.  465.) 

From  "The  Bridgewater  Treatise." 

34:0,  The  Joy  of  Good,  and  the  Misery  of  Evil  Affections. 

God  is  the  lover,  and,  because  so,  the  patron  or  the  rewarder  of 
virtue.  He  hath  so  constituted  our  nature,  that  in  the  very  flow  and 
exercise  of  the  good  affections  there  shall  be  the  oil  of  gladness. 
There  is  instant  delight  in  the  first  conception  of  benevolence ;  there 
18  sustained  delight  in  its  continued  exercise;  there  is  consummated 


A.  I).  1780-1847.  THOMAS   CIIALMERS.  435 

delight  in  the  happy,  smiling,  and  prosperous  result  of  it.  Kindness, 
and  honesty,  and  truth,  are  of  themselves,  and  irrespective  of  theil 
rightness,  sweet  unto  the  taste  of  the  inner  man.  Malice,  envy, 
falsehood,  injustice,  irrespective  of  their  wrongness,  have,  of  them- 
selves, the  bitterness  of  gall  and  wormwood.  The  Deity  hath  'an- 
nexed a  high  mental  enjoyment,  not  to  the  consciousness  only  of  good 
affections,  but  to  the  very  sense  and  feeling  of  good  affections.  How- 
ever closely  these  may  follow  on  each  other,  —  nay,  however  implicated 
or  blended  together  they  may  be  at  the  same  moment  into  one  com- 
pound state  of  feeling,  —  they  are  not  the  less  distinct,  on  that  account, 
of  themselves.         *         *         *         ♦ 

In  the  calm  satisfactions  of  virtue,  this  distinction  ma}'  not  be  so 
palpable  as  in  the  pungent  and  more  vividly  felt  disquietudes  which 
are  attendant  on  the  wrong  affections  of  our  nature.  The  perpetual 
corrosion  of  that  heart,  for  example,  which  frets  in  unhappy  peevish- 
ness all  the  day  long,  is  plainly  distinct  from  the  bitterness  of  that 
remorse  which  is  felt,  in  the  recollection  of  its  harsh  and  injurious 
outbreakings  on  the  innocent  sufferers  within  its  reach.  It  is  saying 
much  for  the  moral  character  of  God,  that  he  has  placed  a  conscience 
within  us,  which  administers  painful  rebuke  on  every  indulgence  of  a 
wrong  affection.  But  it  is  saying  still  more  for  such  being  the  charac- 
ter of  our  Maker,  so  to  have  framed  our  mental  constitution,  that,  in 
the  very  working  of  these  bad  affections,  there  should  be  the  painful- 
ness  of  a  felt  discomfort  and  discordancy.  Such  is  the  make  or  mech- 
anism of  our  nature,  that  it  is  thwarted  and  put  out  of  sorts  by  rage, 
and  envy,  and  hatred ;  and  this,  irrespective  of  the  adverse  moral 
judgments  which  conscience  passes  upt.n  them.  Of  themselves,  they 
are  unsavory;  and  no  sooner  do  they  enter  the  heart,  than  they  shed 
upon  it  an  immediate  distillation  of  bitterness.  Just  as  the  placid 
smile  of  benevolence  bespeaks  the  felt  comfort  of  benevolence,  so  in 
the  frown  and  tempest  of  an  angry  countenance  do  we  read  the 
unhappiness  of  that  man  who  is  vexed  and  agitated  by  his  own 
malignant  affections,  eating  inwardly,  as  thej'  do,  on  the  vitals  of  his 
enjoyment.  It  is  therefore  that  he  is  often  styled,  and  truly,  a  self- 
tormentor,  or  his  own  worst  enemj'. 

The  Force  of   Christian  Evidence   strengthened  by  the 
Christianity  of  the   Witnesses. 

Tacitus  has  actually  attested  the  existence  of  Jesus  Christ.  Sup- 
pose that  besides  attesting  his  existence,  he  had  believed  in  him  so  far 
•^s  to  become  a  Christian.  Is  his  testimony  to  be  refused  because  he 
gives  this  evidence  of  his  sincerity.?  Tacitus  asserting  the  fact,  and 
remaining  a  heathen,  is  not  so  strong  an  argument  as  Tacitus  assert- 
ing the  fact  and  becoming  a  Christian  in  consequence  of  it.  Yet  the 
moment  the  transition  is  made,  —  a  transition  by  which,  in  point  of 
fact,  his  testimony  becomes  stronger,  —  in  point  of  impression  it  be- 
comes less ;  and  bv  a  delusion  common  to  the  infidel  and  the  believer, 


436  THOMAS  BABINGTON  MACAULAY.    Chap.  XXII. 

the  argument  is  held  to  be  weakened  by  the  very  circumstance  \\hich 
imparts  greater  force  to  it.  *  *  *  A  direct  testimony  to  the  mira- 
cles of  the  New  Testament  from  the  mouth  of  a  heathen  is  not  to  be 
expected.  We  cannot  satisfy  this  demand  of  the  infidel;  but  we  can 
give  him  a  host  of  much  stronger  testimonies  than  he  is  in  quest  of — 
the  testimonies  of  those  men  who  were  heathens,  and  Avho  embraced 
a  hazardous  and  a  disgraceful  profession,  under  a  deep  conviction  of 
those  facts  to  which  they  gave  their  testimony.  '*  O,  but  now  you  land 
us  in  the  testimony  of  Christians."  This  is  very  true;  but  it  is  the 
very  fact  of  their  being  Christians,  in  which  the  strength  of  the  argu- 
ment lies.  In  the  Fathers  of  the  Christian  church  we  see  men  who, 
if  they  had  not  been  Christians,  would  have  risen  to  as  high  an  emi- 
nence as  Tacitus  in  the  literature  of  the  times ;  and  whose  direct 
testimony  as  to  the  Gospel  history  would,  in  that  case,  have  been 
most  impressive  even  to  the  mind  of  an  infidel.  And  are  these  testi- 
monies to  be  less  impressive  because  they  were  preceded  by  convic- 
tion and  sealed  by  martyrdom  ! 


Thomas  Babington  Macaulay.      1800-1859.     (Manual, 

p.  461.) 

From  the  "Essay  on  Milton." 

341,    Fallacious  Distrust  of  Liberty. 

Ariosto  tells  a  pretty  story  of  a  fairy,  who,  by  some  mysterious  law 
of  her  nature,  was  condemned  to  appear  at  certain  seasons  in  the  form 
of  a  foul  and  poisonous  snake.  Those  who  injured  her,  during  the 
period  of  her  disguise,  were  forever  excluded  from  participation  in 
the  blessings  which  she  bestowed.  But  to  those  who,  in  spite  of  her 
loathsome  aspect,  pitied  and  protected  her,  she  afterwards  revealed 
herself  in  the  beautiful  and  celestial  form  which  was  natural  to  her, 
accompanied  their  steps,  granted  all  their  wishes,  filled  their  houses 
with  wealth,  made  them  happy  in  love,  and  victorious  in  war.  Such 
a  spirit  is  Liberty.  At  times  she  takes  the  form  of  a  hateful  reptile. 
She  growls,  she  hisses,  she  stings.  But  woe  to  those  who  in  disgust 
fehall  venture  to  crush  her!  And  happy  are  those  who,  having  dared 
to  receive  her  in  her  degraded  and  frightful  shape,  shall  at  length  be 
rewarded  by  her  in  the  time  of  her  beauty  and  her  glory. 

There  is  only  one  cure  for  the  evils  which  newly  acquired  freedom 
produces  —  and  that  cure  is  freedom !  When  a  prisoner  leaves  his 
cell,  he  cannot  bear  the  light  of  day;  he  is  unable  to  discriminate 
colors,  or  recognize  faces.  But  the  remedy  is  not  to  remand  him  into 
his  dungeon,  but  to  accustom  him  to  the  rays  of  the  sun.  The  blaze 
of  truth  and  liberty  may  at  first  dazzle  and  bewilder  nations  which 
have  become  half  blind  in  the  house  of  bondage.  But  let  them  gaze 
on,  and  they  will  soon  be  able  to  bear  it.     In  a  few  years  men  learn 


A.  L».  1800-1859.      THOMAS   BABINGTON  MAC  A  UL  AY.        437 

to  reason.  The  extreme  violence  of  opinion  subsides.  Hostile  theories 
correct  each  other.  The  scattered  elements  of  truth  cease  to  conflict, 
and  begin  to  coalesce.  And  at  length  a  system  of  justice  and  order 
is  educed  out  of  the  chaos. 

Many  politicians  of  our  time  are  in  the  habit  of  laying  it  down  as 
a  self-evident  proposition,  that  no  people  ought  to  be  free,  till  they 
are  fit  to  use  their  freedom.  The  maxim  is  worthy  of  the  fool  in  the 
old  story,  who  resolved  not  to  go  into  the  water  till  he  had  learnt  to 
swim !  If  men  are  to  wait  for  liberty  till  they  become  wise  and  good 
in  slavery,  they  may  indeed  wait  forever. 


From  the  "Essay  on  Barere." 
342*   Evils  of  the  Reign  of  Terror. 

We  could,  we  think,  also  show  that  the  evils  produced  by  the  Jacobin 
administration  did  not  terminate  when  it  fell;  that  it  bequeathed  a 
long  series  of  calamities  to  France  and  to  Europe  ;  that  public  opinion, 
which  had  during  two  generations  been  constantly  becoming  more 
and  more  fovorable  to  civil  and  religious  freedom,  underwent,  during 
the  days  of  Terror,  a  change  of  which  the  traces  are  still  to  be  dis- 
tinctly perceived.  It  was  natural  that  there  should  be  such  a  change, 
when  men  saw  that  those  who  called  themselves  the  champions  of 
popular  rights,  had  compressed  into  the  space  of  twelve  months  more 
crimes  than  the  kings  of  France,  Merovingian,  Carlovingian,  and 
Capetian,  had  perpetrated  in  twelve  centuries.  Freedom  was  re- 
garded as  a  great  delusion.  Men  were  willing  to  submit  to  the  gov- 
ernment of  hereditary  princes,  of  fortunate  soldiers,  of  nobles,  of 
priests,  to  any  government  but  that  of  philosophers  and  philanthro- 
pists. Hence  the  imperial  despotism,  with  its  enslaved  press  and  its 
silent  tribune,  its  dungeons  stronger  than  the  old  Bastile,  and  its  tri- 
bunals more  obsequious  than  the  old  Parliaments.  Hence  the  resto- 
ration of  the  Bourbons  and  of  the  Jesuits,  the  Chamber  of  1S15,  with 
its  categories  of  proscription,  the  revival  of  the  feudal  spirit,  the  en- 
croachments of  the  clerg}',  the  persecution  of  the  Protestants,  the 
appearance  of  a  new  breed  of  De  Montforts  and  Dominies,  in  the  full 
light  of  the  nineteenth  century. 

And  so,  in  politics,  it  is  the  sure  law  that  every  excess  shall  generate 
ils  opposite;  nor  does  he  deserve  the  name  of  a  statesman,  who  strikes 
a  great  blow  without  fully  calculating  the  effect  of  the  rebound.  But 
such  calculation  was  infinitely  beyond  the  reach  of  the  authors  of  the 
Reign  of  Terror.  Violence  and  more  violence,  blood  and  more  blood, 
made  up  their  whole  polic}'.  In  a  few  months,  these  poor  creatures 
succeeded  in  bringing  about  a  reaction,  of  which  none  of  them  saw, 
and  of  which  none  of  us  may  see,  the  close;  and,  having  brought  i* 
about,  they  marvelled  at  it;  they  bewailed  it;  they  execrated  it;  they 
ascribed  it  to  everything  but  the  real  cause  —  their  own  immorality, 
and  their  own  profound  incapacity  for  the  conduct  of  great  affairs. 


438  HUGE  MILLER.  Chap.  XXIL 

Hugh  Miller.     1802-1S56.     (Manual,  p.  467.) 

From  "The  Old  Red  Sandstone." 

343»   The  Future  History  of  Man  upon  the  Globe. 

We  pursue  our  history  no  further.  Its  after  course  is  comparatively 
well  known.  The  huge  sauroid  fish  was  succeeded  by  the  equally 
l..ige  reptile  —  the  reptile  by  the  bird  —  the  bird  by  the  marsupial 
quadruped ;  and  at  length,  after  races  higher  in  the  scale  of  instinct 
had  taken  precedence  in  succession,  the  one  of  the  other,  the  sagacious 
elephant  appeared,  as  the  lord  of  that  latest  creation  which  immedi- 
ately preceded  our  own.  How  natural  does  the  thought  seem  which 
suggested  itself  to  the  profound  mind  of  Cuvier,  when  indulging  in  a 
similar  review!  Has  the  last  scene  in  the  series  arisen,  or  has  Deity 
expended  his  infinitude  of  resource,  and  reached  the  ultimate  stage 
of  progression  at  which  perfection  can  arrive?  The  philosopher  hesi- 
tated, and  then  decided  in  the  negative,  for  he  was  too  intimately 
acquainted  with  the  works  of  the  Omnipotent  Creator  to  think  of 
limiting  his  power;  and  he  could,  therefore,  anticipate  a  coming 
period  in  which  man  would  have  to  resign  his  post  of  honor  to  some 
nobler  and  Aviser  creature  —  the  monarch  of  a  better  and  happier 
world.  How  well  it  is  to  be  permitted  to  indulge  in  the  expansion 
of  Cuvier's  thought,  without  sharing  in  the  melancholy  of  Cuvier's 
feelings  —  to  be  enabled  to  look  forward  to  the  coming  of  a  new  heaven 
and  a  new  earth,  not  in  terror,  but  in  hope  —  to  be  encouraged  to 
believe  in  the  system  of  unending  progression,  but  to  entertain  no 
fear  of  the  degradation  or  despotism  of  man  !  The  adorable  Monarch 
of  the  future,  with  all  its  unsummed  perfection,  has  already  passed 
into  the  heavens,  flesh  of  our  flesh,  and  bone  of  our  bone,  and  Enoch 
and  Elias  are  therewith  him, — fit  representatives  of  that  dominant 
race,  which  no  other  race  shall  ever  supplant  or  succeed,  and  to  whose 
onward  and  upward  march  the  deep  echoes  of  eternity  shall  never 
cease  to  respond. 

Pleasures  of  a  Life  of  Labor. 

I  was  as  light  of  heart  the  next  morning  as  any  of  my  .brother 
workmen.  There  had  been  a  smart  frost  during  the  night,  and  the 
riu'e  lay  white  on  the  grass  as  we  passed  onwards  through  the  fields; 
bul  the  sun  rose  in  a  clear  atmosphere,  and  the  day  mellowed,  as  it 
ad%  anced,  into  one  of  those  delightful  days  of  early  spring,  which 
give  so  pleasing  an  earnest  of  whatever  is  mild  and  genial  in  the 
better  half  of  the  year.  All  the  workmen  rested  at  midday,  and  I 
went  to  enjoy  my  half  hour  alone  on  a  mossy  knoll  in  the  neighbor- 
ing wood,  which  commands  through  the  trees  a  wide  prospect  of  the 
bay  and  the  opposite  shore.  There  was  not  a  wrinkle  on  the  water 
nor  a  cloud  in  the  sky,  and  the  branches  were  as  moveless  in  the  calm 


A.  D.  1748-1832.  JEREMY  BE  NTH  AM.  439 

as  if  they  had  been  traced  on  canvas.  From  a  wooded  promontory 
that  stretched  halfway  across  the  frith,  there  ascended  a  thin  column 
of  smoke.  It  rose  straight  as  the  line  of  a  plummet  for  more  than  a 
thousand  yards,  and  then,  on  reaching  a  thinner  stratum  of  air,  spread 
out  equally  on  every  side  like  the  foliage  of  a  stately  tree.  Ben  Wyvis 
rose  to  the  west,  white  with  the  yet  unwasted  snow  of  winter,  and  as 
sharply  defined  in  the  clear  atmosphere  as  if  all  its  sunny  slopes  and 
blue  retiring  hollows  had  been  chiselled  in  marble.  A  line  of  snow 
ran  along  the  opposite  hills;  all  above  was  white,  and  all  below  was 
purple.  They  reminded  me  of  the  pretty  French  story,  in  which  an 
old  artist  is  described  as  tasking  the  ingenuity  of  his  future  son-in- 
law,  by  giving  him  as  a  subject  for  his  pencil  a  flower-piece  composed 
of  only  white  flowers,  of  which  the  one  half  were  to  bear  their  proper 
color,  the  other  half  a  deep  purple  hue,  and  yet  all  be  perfectly  nat- 
ural ;  and  how  the  young  man  resolved  the  riddle  and  gained  his 
mistress,  by  introducing  a  transparent  purple  vase  into  the  picture, 
and  making  the  light  pass  through  it  on  the  flowers  that  were  droop- 
ing over  the  edge.  I  returned  to  the  quarry,  convinced  that  a  very 
exquisite  pleasure  may  be  a  very  cheap  one,  and  that  the  busiest  em- 
ployments may  afford  leisure  enough  to  enjoy  it. 


Jeremy  Bentham.    1748-1832.    (Manual,  p.  473-) 
From  "The  Rationale  of  Evidence."    Works,  Vol.  VII, 
34:4:,  Jargon  of  the  English  Law. 

Every  sham  science,  of  which  there  are  so  many,  makes  to  itself  a 
jargon,  to  serve  for  a  cover  to  its  nothingness,  and,  if  wicked,  to  its 
wickedness  :  alchemy,  palmistry,  magic,  judicial  astrology,  technical 
jurisprudence.  To  unlicensed  depredators,  their  own  technical  lan- 
guage, the  cant  or  flash  language,  is  of  use,  not  only  as  a  cover,  but 
as  a  bond  of  union.  Lawyers'  cant,  besides  serving  them  as  a  cover 
and  as  a  bond  of  union,  serves  them  as  an  instrument,  an  iron  crow 
or  a  pick-lock  key,  for  collecting  plunder  in  cases  in  which  otherwise 
it  could  not  be  collected  :  for  applying  the  principle  of  nullification, 
in  many  a  case  in  which  it  could  not  otherwise  have  been  applied. 

The  best  of  all  good  old  times,  was  when  the  fate  of  Englishmen 
was  disposed  of  in  French,  and  in  a  something  that  was  called  Latin. 
For  having  been  once  in  use,  language,  however,  is  not  much  the 
worse,  so  it  be  of  use  no  longer.  The  antiquated  notation  of  time 
sufiices  of  itself  to  throw  a  veil  of  mystery  over  the  system  of  pro- 
cedure. Martin  and  Hilarj',  saints  forgotten  by  devotees,  are  still  of 
use  to  lawyers.  How  many  a  man  has  been  ruined,  because  his  law- 
ver  made  a  mistake,  designed  or  undesigned,  in  reckoning  by  the 
almanac!  First  of  January,  second  of  January,  and  so  forth,  — where 
Is  the  science  there?    Not  a  child  of  four  years  old  that  does  not  under- 


440  BICHABD    WHATELET.  Chap.  XXU 

fitand  it.  Octaves,  quindecims,  and  morrows  of  All  Souls.  St.  Martin, 
St.  Hilary,  the  Purification,  Easter  day,  the  Ascension,  and  the  \lo\y 
Trinity;  Essoign  day,  day  of  Exception,  Retorna  Brevium  day,  day 
of  Appearance  —  alias  Quarto  die  post  —  alias  Dies  amoris ;  there  you 
have  a  science.  Terms  —  Michaelmas,  Hilary,  Easter,  and  Trmity,^ 
each  of  them  about  thirty  days,  no  one  of  them  more  than  one  day; 
there  you  have  not  only  a  science,  but  a  mystery :  do  as  the  devils  do, 
believe  and  tremble. 


From  "  Law  as  it  is,"  &c.     Works,  Vol.  V. 

34:5»   Impossibility  of  a  Know^ledge  of  the  Common  Law 

BY  THE  People. 

Scarce  any  man  has  the  means  of  knowing  a  twentieth  part  of  the 
laws  he  is  bound  by.  Both  sorts  of  law  are  kept  most  happily  and 
carefully  from  the  knowledge  of  the  people :  statute  law  by  its  shape 
and  bulk ;  common  law  by  its  very  essence.  It  is  the  Judges  (as  we 
have  seen)  that  make  the  common  law.  Do  you  know  how  they  make 
it?  Just  as  a  man  makes  laws  for  his  dog.  When  your  dog  does  any- 
thing you  want  to  break  him  of,  you  wait  till  he  does  it,  and  then  beat 
him  for  it.  This  is  the  way  you  make  laws  for  your  dog:  and  this  is 
the  way  the  Judges  make  laws  for  you  and  me.  They  won't  tell  a 
man  beforehand  what  it  is  he  should  not  do —  they  won't  so  much  as 
allow  of  his  being  told  :  they  lie  by  till  he  has  done  something  which 
they  say  he  should  not  have  done,  and  then  thej'  hang  him  for  it. 
What  way,  then,  has  any  man  of  coming  at  this  dog-law.-*  Only  by 
watching  their  proceedings  :  by  observing  in  what  cases  they  have 
hanged  a  man,  in  what  cases  they  have  sent  him  to  jail,  in  what  cases 
they  have  seized  his  goods,  and  so  forth.  These  proceedings  they 
won't  publish  themselves;  and  if  anybody  else  publishes  them,  it  is 
what  they  call  a  contempt  of  court,  and  a  man  may  be  sent  to  jail 
for  it. 


Richard  Whateley.     i  787-1 856.     (Manual,  p.  466.) 

From  "The  Lectures  on  Political  Economy." 

34:0,    Civilization  favorable  to  Morality. 

On  the  whole,  then,  there  seems  every  reason  to  believe,  that,  as  a 
general  rule,  that  advancement  in  National  Prosperity  which  man- 
kind are,  by  the  Governor  of  the  universe  adapted,  and  impelled  to 

1  These  barbarous  names,  in  bad  Latin  or  old  French,  were  the  legal  titles  of  certain  days  on  whicli 
impoitant  steps  were  to  be  taken  in  prosecuting  a  suit;  the  latter  four  designated  the  terras,  of  three  or 
four  weeks  each,  during  which  the  English  courts  were  wont  to  sit,  at  different  seasons,  for  the  admin- 
istration of  justice. 


A..  D.  1787-1856.        RICHABD    WEATELEY.  441 

promote,  must  be  favorable  to  moral  improvement.  Still  more  does 
it  appear  evident,  that  such  a  conclusion  must  be  acceptable  to  a  pious 
and  philanthropic  mind.  It  is  not  probable,  still  less  is  it  desirable, 
that  the  Deity  should  have  fitted  and  destined  society  to  make  a  con- 
tinual progress,  impeded  only  by  slothful  and  negligent  habits,  b^ 
war,  rapine,  and  oppression  (in  short,  by  violation  of  divine  com- 
mands), which  progress  inevitably  tends  towards  a  greater  and  greatei 
moral  corruption. 

And  yet  there  are  some  who  appear  not  only  to  think,  but  to  ivisA 
to  think,  that  a  condition  but  little  removed  from  the  savage  state, — 
one  of  ignorance,  grossness,  and  poverty,  —  unenlightened,  semi- 
barbarous,  and  stationary,  is  the  most  favorable  to  virtue.  You  will 
meet  with  persons  who  will  be  even  offended  if  you  attempt  to  awaken 
them  from  their  dreams  about  primitive  rural  simplicity,  and  to  con- 
vince them  that  the  spread  of  civilization,  which  they  must  see  has 
a  tendency  to  spread,  does  not  tend  to  increase  depravity.  Supposing 
their  notion  true,  it  must  at  least,  one  would  think,  be  a  melancholy 
truth. 

It  may  be  said  as  a  reason,  not  for  wishing,  but  for  believing  this, 
that  the  moral  dangers  which  beset  a  wealthy  community  are  designed 
as  a  trial.  Undoubtedly  they  are ;  since  no  state  in  which  man  is 
placed  is  exempt  from  trials.  And  let  it  be  admitted,  also,  if  you  will, 
that  the  temptations  to  evil,  to  which  civilized  man  is  exposed,  are 
absolutely  stronger  than  those  which  exist  in  a  ruder  state  of  society' ; 
still,  if  they  are  also  relatively  stronger  —  stronger  in  proportion  to 
the  counteracting  forces,  and  stronger  than  the  augmented  motives  to 
good  conduct — and  are  such,  consequently,  that,  as  society  advances 
in  civilization,  there  is  less  and  less  virtue,  and  a  continually  decreas- 
ing prospect  of  its  being  attained  —  this  amounts  to  something  more 
than  a  state  of  trial;  it  is  a  distinct  provision  made  by  the  Deity  for 
the  moral  degradation  of  his  rational  creatures.  '  * 

This  can  hardly  be  a  desirable  conclusion;  but  if  it  be,  nevertheless, 
a  true  one  (and  our  wishes  should  not  be  allowed  to  bias  our  judg- 
ment), those  who  hold  it,  ought  at  least  to  follow  it  up  in  practice,  by 
diminishing,  as  far  as  is  possible,  the  severity  of  the  trial.  *  *  *  Let 
us  put  away  from  us  "the  accursed  thing."  If  national  wealth  be,  in 
a  moral  point  of  view,  an  evil,  let  us,  in  the  name  of  all  that  is  good, 
set  about  to  diminish  it.  Let  us,  as  he  advises,  burn  our  fleets,  block 
up  our  ports,  destroy  our  manufactories,  break  up  our  roads,  and  be« 
take  ourselves  to  a  life  of  frugal  and  rustic  simplicity;  like  Mande* 
ville's  bees,  who 

•'  flew  into  a  hollow  tree, 
Bleet  with  content  and  bonesty." 


442  WILLIAM  PITT.  Chap.  XXUL 


CHAPTER    XXIII. 

ORATORS. 


347 •  William  Pitt,  Earl  of  Chatham,     i 708-1 778. 

The  character  of  Lord  Chatham's  eloquence  is  thus  described  hy 
Mr.  Charles  Butler  (1750-1832)  in  his  "Reminiscences"  :  — 

Of  those  hy  whom  Lord  North  was  preceded,  none,  probably,  except 
Lord  Chatham,  will  be  remembered  by  posterity;  but  the  nature  of 
the  eloquence  of  this  extraordinary  man  it  is  extremely  difficult  to  de- 
scribe. 

No  person  in  his  external  appearance  was  ever  more  bountifully 
gifted  by  nature  for  an  orator.  In  his  look  and  his  gesture,  grace  and 
dignity  were  combined,  but  dignity  presided;  the  "terrors  of  his 
beak,  the  lightnings  of  his  eye,"  were  insufferable.  His  voice  was 
both  full  and  clear;  his  lowest  whisper  was  distinctly  heard  ;  his  mid- 
dle tones  were  sweet,  rich,  and  beautifully  varied.  When  he  elevated 
.his  voice  to  its  highest  pitch,  the  house  was  completely  filled  with  the 
volume  of  the  sound.  The  effect  was  awful,  except  when  he  wished  to 
cheer  or  animate;  he  then  had  spirit-stirring  notes,  which  were  per- 
fectly irresistible.  He  frequently  rose,  on  a  sudden,  from  a  very  low 
to  a  very  high  key,  but  it  seemed  to  be  without  effort.  His  diction 
was  remarkably  simple ;  but  words  were  never  chosen  with  greater 
care.  He  mentioned  to  a  friend  that  he  had  read  Bailey's  Dictionary 
twice,  from  beginning  to  end,  and  that  he  had  perused  some  of  Dr. 
Barro-ix/s  Sermons  so  often  as  to  know  them  by  heart. 

His  sentiments,  too,  were  apparently  simple ;  but  sentiments  were 
never  adopted  or  uttered  with  greater  skill.  He  was  often  familiar, 
and  even  playful;  but  it  was  the  familiarity  and  playfulness  of  con- 
descension—  the  lion  that  dandled  with  the  kid.  The  terrible,  how- 
ever, was  his  peculiar  power.  Then  the  whole  house  sunk  before 
him.  Still  he  was  dignified;  and  wonderful  as  was  his  eloquence,  it 
was  attended  with  this  most  important  effect,  that  it  impressed  every 
hearer  with  a  conviction  that  there  was  something  in  him  even  finer 
than  his  words;  that  the  man  was  infinitely  greater  than  the  orator. 
No  impression  of  this  kind  was  made  by  the  eloquence  of  his  son,  or 
his  son's  antagonist. 

But  with  this  great  man  —  for  great  he  certainly  was  —  fnanner  dU] 


A.  D.  1708-1778.  WILLIAM  PITT,  4^3 

much.     One  of  the  fairest  specimens  which  we  possess  of  his  lord- 
ship's oratory  is  his  speech,  in  1776,  for  the  repeal  of  the  Stamp  Act. 

Most,  perhaps,  who  read  the  report  of  this  speech  in  "Almon's 
Register,"  will  wonder  at  the  effect  which  it  is  known  to  have  pro- 
duced on  the  hearers;  yet  the  report  is  tolerably  exact,  and  exhibits, 
although  faintly,  its  leading  features.  But  they  should  have  seen 
the  /00k  of  ineffable  contempt  with  which  he  surveyed  the  late  Mr. 
Grenville,  who  sat  within  one  of  him,  and  should  have  heard  him 
say  with  that  look,  "As  to  the  late  ministry,  every  capital  measure 
they  have  taken  has  been  entirely  wrong."  They  should  also  have 
beheld  him,  when,  addressing  himself  to  Mr.  Grenville's  successors, 
he  said,  "As  to  the  present  gentlemen  —  those,  at  least,  whom  I  have 
in  my  eye  "  —  (looking  at  the  bench  on  which  Mr.  Conway  sat)  —  "I 
have  no  objection  ;  I  have  never  been  made  a  sacrifice  by  any  of  them. 
Some  of  them  have  done  me  the  honor  to  ask  my  poor  opinion  before 
they  would  engage  to  repeal  the  act :  they  will  do  me  the  justice  to 
own,  I  did  advise  them  to  engage  to  do  it;  but  notwithstanding  — 
(for  I  love  to  be  explicit)  — I  cannot  give  them  my  confidence.  Par- 
don me,  gentlemen" —  (bowing  to  them)  —  '-'■confidence  is  a  plant  of 
slovj  growth."  Those  who  remember  the  air  of  condescending  pro- 
tection with  which  the  bow  was  made,  and  the  look  given,  when  he 
spoke  these  words,  will  recollect  how  much  they  themselves,  at  the 
moment,  were  both  delighted  and  awed,  and  what  they  themselves 
then  conceived  of  the  immeasurable  superiority  of  the  orator  over 
every  human  being  that  surrounded  him.  In  the  passages  which  we 
have  cited,  there  is  nothing  which  an  ordinary  speaker  might  not 
have  said ;  it  was  the  mantiei^,  and  the  manner  only,  which  produced 
the  effect.         *         *         *         * 

Once,  while  he  was  speaking.  Sir  William  Young  called  out, 
"Question,  question!"  Lord  Chatham  paused  —  then,  fixing  on  Sir 
William  a  look  of  inexpressible  disgust,  exclaimed,  "Pardon  me,  Mr. 
Speaker,  my  agitation  :  —  when  that  member  calls  for  the  question,  I 
fear  I  hear  the  knell  of  my  country's  ruin."         *         *         *         * 

But  the  most  extraordinary  instance  of  his  command  of  the  house, 
is  the  manner  in  which  he  fixed  indelibly  on  Mr.  Grenville  the  appel- 
lation of  "  the  Gentle  Shepherd."  At  this  time,  a  song  of  Dr. 
Howard,  which  began  with  the  words,  "Gentle  Shepherd,  tell  me 
where,"  —  and  in  which  each  stanza  ended  with  that  line,  —  was  in 
every  mouth.  On  some  occasion,  Mr.  Grenville  exclaimed,  "Where 
is  our  money.''  where  are  our  means.''  I  say  again,  Where  are  our 
means?  where  is  our  money.?"  He  then  sat  down,  and  Lord  Chat- 
ham paced  slowly  out  of  the  house,  humming  the  line,  "  Gentle 
Sliei)herd,  tell  me  where."  The  effect  was  irresistible,  and  settled  for- 
ever on  Mr.  Grenville  the  appellation  of  "  the  Gentle  Shepherd." 

A  speech  of  Lord  Chatham's  is  given  on  page  270. 


444  EDMUND  BURKE.  Chap.  XXHl 


Edmlnd  Burke.     '73i-i797« 

34S»   From  his  "Speech  on  Conciliation  with  America," 

March  22,  1775. 

Compare  the  two.  This  I  offer  to  give  you  is  plain  and  simple ;  the 
other  full  of  perplexed  and  intricate  mazes.  This  is  mild;  that  harsh. 
This  is  found  by  experience  effectual  for  its  purposes;  the  other  is  a 
new  project.  This  is  universal;  the  other  calculated  for  certain  col- 
onies only.  This  is  immediate  in  its  conciliatory  operation ;  the  other 
remote,  contingent,  full  of  hazard.  Mine  is  what  becomes  the  dignity 
of  a  ruling  people;  gratuitous,  unconditional,  and  not  held  out  as 
matter  of  bargain  and  sale.  I  have  done  my  duty  in  proposing  it  to 
you.  I  have  indeed  tired  you  by  a  long  discourse ;  but  this  is  the 
misfortune  of  those  to  whose  influence  nothing  will  be  conceded,  and 
who  must  win  every  inch  of  their  ground  by  argument.  You  have 
heard  me  with  goodness.  May  3'ou  decide  with  wisdom  !  For  my 
part,  I  feel  my  mind  greatly  disburdened  by  what  I  have  done  to-day. 
I  have  been  the  less  fearful  of  trying  your  patience,  because  on  this 
subject  I  mean  to  spare  it  altogether  in  future.  I  have  this  comfort, 
that  in  every  stage  of  the  American  affairs  I  have  steadily  opposed 
the  measures  that  have  produced  the  confusion,  and  may  bring  on 
the  destruction,  of  this  empire.  I  now  go  so  far  as  to  risk  a  proposal 
of  my  own.  If  I  cannot  give  peace  to  my  country,  I  give  it  to  my 
conscience. 

But  what  (says  the  financier)  is  peace  to  us  without  money.?  Your 
plan  gives  us  no  revenue.  No!  But  it  does  —  for  it  secures  to  the 
subject  the  power  of  REFUSAL ;  the  first  of  all  revenvies.  Experi- 
ence is  a  cheat,  and  fact  a  liar,  if  this  power  in  the  subject  of  propor- 
tioning his  grant,  or  of  not  granting  at  all,  has  not  been  found  the 
richest  mine  of  revenue  ever  discovered  by  the  skill  or  by  the  fortune 
of  man.         *         *         *         * 

I,  for  one,  protest  against  compounding  our  demands.  I  declare 
against  compounding,  for  a  poor  limited  sum,  the  immense,  ever- 
growing, eternal  debt,  which  is  due  to  generous  government  from 
protected  freedom.  And  so  may  I  speed  in  the  great  object  I  pro- 
pose to  you,  as  I  think  it  would  not  only  be  an  act  of  injustice,  but 
would  be  the  worst  economy  in  the  world,  to  compel  the  colonies  to 
a  sum  certain,  either  in  the  way  of  ransom  or  in  the  way  of  compul- 
sory compact. 

But  to  clear  up  my  ideas  on  this  subject,  —  a  revenue  from  America 
transmitted  hither,  —  do  not  delude  yourselves;  you  never  can  re- 
ceive it  —  No,  not  a  shilling.  We  have  experience  that  from  remote 
countries  it  is  not  to  be  expected.  If,  when  you  attempted  to  extract 
revenue  from  Bengal,  you  were  obliged  to  return  in  loan  Avhat  you 
had  taken  in  imposition,  what  can  you  expect  from  North  America? 
For  certainly,  if  ever  there  was  a  country  qualified  to  produce  wealtli, 


A.  D.  1731-1797.  EDMUND   BURKE,  445 

it  is  India;  or  an  institution  fit  for  the  transmission,  it  is  the  East 
India  Company.  America  has  none  of  these  aptitudes.  If  America 
gives  jou  taxable  objects,  on  which  3'ou  lay  your  duties  I  ere,  and 
gives  you,  at  the  same  time,  a  surplus  by  a  foreign  sale  of  her  com- 
modities to  pay  the  duties  on  these  objects  which  you  tax  at  home, 
she  has  performed  her  part  to  the  British  revenue.  But  with  regard 
to  her  own  internal  establishments,  she  may,  I  doubt  not  she  will, 
contribute  in  moderation.  I  say  in  moderation,  for  she  ought  not  to 
be  permitted  to  exhaust  herself.  She  ought  to  be  reserved  to  a  war. 
the  weight  of  which,  with  the  enemies  that  we  are  most  likely  to  have, 
must  be  considerable  in  her  quarter  of  the  globe.  There  she  may 
serve  you,  and  serve  you  essentially. 

For  that  service,  for  all  service,  whether  of  revenue,  trade,  or  em- 
pire, my  trust  is  in  her  interest  in  the  British  constitution.  My  hold 
of  the  colonies  is  in  the  close  affection  which  grows  from  common 
names,  from  kindred  blood,  from  similar  privileges,  and  equal  pro- 
tection. These  are  ties  which,  though  light  as  air,  are  as  strong  as 
links  of  iron.  Let  the  colonies  always  keep  the  idea  of  their  civil 
rights  associated  with  your  government,  they  will  cling  and  grapple 
to  you;  and  no  force  under  heaven  will  be  of  power  to  tear  them  from 
their  allegiance.  But  let  it  be  once  understood  that  your  government 
may  be  one  thing,  and  their  privileges  another;  that  these  two  things 
may  exist  without  anj-  mutual  relation;  the  cement  is  gone,  the  cohe- 
bion  is  loosened,  and  everything  hastens  to  decay  and  dissolution. 
As  long  as  you  have  the  wisdom  to  keep  the  sovereign  authority  of 
tiiis  country  as  the  sanctuary  of  liberty,  the  sacred  temple  consecrated 
to  our  comrnon  faith,  wherever  the  chosen  race  and  sons  of  England 
worship  freedom,  they  will  turn  their  faces  towards  you.  The  more 
they  multiply,  the  more  friends  you  will  have;  the  more  ardently  they 
love  liberty,  the  more  perfect  will  be  their  obedience.  Slavery  they 
can  have  anywhere.  It  is  a  weed  that  grows  in  every  soil.  They  may 
have  it  from  Spain,  they  may  have  it  from  Prussia.  But  until  you 
become  lost  to  all  feeling  of  your  true  interest  and  your  natural  dig- 
nity, freedom  they  can  have  from  none  but  you.  This  is  the  com- 
modity of  price,  of  which  you  have  the  monopoly.  This  is  the  true 
act  of  navigation,  which  binds  to  you  the  commerce  of  the  cqlonies, 
and  through  them  secures  to  3'ou  the  wealth  of  the  world.  Deny 
them  this  participation  of  freedom,  and  you  break  that  sole  bond 
which  originally  made,  and  must  still  preserve,  the  unity  of  the  em- 
pire. Do  not  entertain  so  weak  an  imagination  as  that  your  registers 
and  your  bonds,  your  affidavits  and  your  sufferances,  your  cockets 
and  your  clearances,  are  w^hat  form  the  great  securities  of  your  com- 
merce. Do  not  dreain  that  your  letters  of  office,  and  yoxxx  instruc- 
tions, and  your  suspending  clauses,  are  the  things  that  hold  together 
the  great  contexture  of  this  mysterious  whole.  These  things  do  not 
make  your  government.  Dead  instruments,  passive  tools  as  they 
are,   it  is  the  spirit  of  the  English  communion  that  gives  all  their 


1-16  EDMUXD   BUllKE,  Chap.  XXIIl 

life  and  efBcacy  to  them.  It  is  the  spirit  of  the  English  constitution, 
which,  infused  through  the  mighty  mass,  pervades,  feeds,  unites,  in- 
vigorates, vivifies,  every  part  of  the  empire,  even  down  to  the  minut- 
est member. 


From  his  Speech  ox  American  T.^xatiox. 

3-J:Q,    Character  of  Lord  Chatham's  Secontj  Admixistratiox, 
AXD  OF  Charles  Townshexd,  1774. 

AnoLier  scene  was  opened,  and  other  actors  appeared  on  the  stage. 
The  state,  in  the  condition  I  have  described  it.  was  delivered  into  the 
hands  of  Lord  Chatham  —  a  great  and  celebrated  name  ;  a  name  that 
keeps  the  name  of  this  country  respectable  in  every  other  on  the 
globe.         *         *         *         * 

Sir,  the  venerable  age  of  this  great  man,  his  merited  rank,  his  supe- 
rior eloquence,  his  splendid  qualities,  his  eminent  services,  the  vast 
space  he  fills  in  the  eye  of  mankind:  and.  more  than  all  the  rest,  his 
fall  from  power,  which,  like  death,  canonizes  and  sanctifies  a  great 
character,  will  not  sufl'er  me  to  censure  any  part  of  his  conduct-  I  am 
afraid  to  flatter  him ;  I  am  sure  I  am  not  disposed  to  blame  him.  Let 
those  who  have  betrayed  him  by  their  adulation,  insult  him  'snth  theii 
malevolence.  But  what  I  do  not  presume  to  censure,  I  may  have 
leave  to  lament.  For  a  wise  man,  he  seemed  to  me  at  that  time  to 
be  governed  too  much  by  general  maxims.  I  speak  with  the  freedom 
of  history,  and  I  hope  without  offence.  One  or  two  of  th§se  maxims, 
flowing  from  an  opinion  not  the  most  indulgent  to  our  unhappy  spe- 
cies, and  surely  a  little  too  general,  led  him  into  measures  that  were 
greatlv  mischievous  to  himself;  and  for  that  reason,  among  others, 
perhaps  fatal  to  his  country:  measures,  the  effects  of  which,  I  am 
afraid,  are  forever  incurable.  He  made  an  administration  so  checkered 
and  speckled;  he  put  together  a  niece  of  joinery,  so  crossly  indented 
and  whimsically  dovetailed ;  a  cabinet  so  variously  inlaid ;  such  a 
piece  of  diversified  mosaic;  such  a  tessellated  pavement  without  ce- 
ment; here  a  bit  of  black  stone,  and  there  a  bit  of  white:  patriots 
and  courtiers,  king's  friends  and  republicans;  whigs  and  tories; 
treacherous  friends  and  open  enemies;  that  it  was  indeed  a  very  curi- 
ous show ;  but  utterly  unsafe  to  touch,  and  unsure  to  stand  on.  The 
colleagues  whom  he  had  assorted  at  the  same  boards,  stared  at  each 
othsr,  and  were  obliged  to  ask,  "  Sir.  your  name.'' —  Sir,  you  have  tlae 
advantage  of  me  —  Mr.  Such  a  one  —  I  beg  a  thousand  pardons  —  " 
I  venture  to  sav.  it  did  so  happen,  that  persons  had  a  single  office 
divided  between  them,  who  had  never  spoke  to  each  other  in  their 
lives ;  until  they  found  themselves,  they  knew  not  how,  pigging  to- 
gether, heads  and  points,  in  the  same  truckle-bed.* 

I  Supp^ised  to  allude  to  the  Bight  Hon.  Lord  Nortli.  and  George  Cook,  Esq.,  who  wei«  niad«  joirt 
pajmasters  ia  irOB,  ou  tlio  rciuoval  ol"  tlic  Rtic&iii^ham  aJmiLiistniJion. 


A.  1).  1731-1797.  EDMUSD  BURKE.  4-17 

Sir.  in  consequence  of  this  arrangement,  having  put  so  much  the  largei 
part  of  his  enemies  and  opposers  into  power,  the  confusion  ^ras  such, 
that  his  own  principles  could  not  possiblv  have  anv  effect  or  influ- 
ence in  the  conduct  of  affairs.  If  ever  he  fell  into  a  fit  of  the  gout, 
or  if  any  other  cause  withdrew  him  from  public  cares,  principles 
directlv  the  contrary  were  sure  to  predominate.  \\'hen  he  had  ex- 
ecuted his  plan,  he  had  not  an  inch  of  ground  to  stand  upon ;  when 
he  had  accomplished  his  scheme  of  administration,  he  was  no  longer 
a  minister. 

"V\"hen  his  face  was  hid  but  for  a  moment,  his  whole  system  was  on 
a  wide  sea.  without  chart  or  compass.  The  gentlemen,  his  particular 
friends,  who.  with  the  names  of  various  departments  of  ministry, 
were  admitted,  to  seem  as  if  they  acted  a  part  under  him,  with  a  mod- 
esty that  becomes  all  men.  and  with  a  confidence  in  him.  which  was 
justified  even  in  its  extravagance  by  his  superior  abilities,  had  never, 
in  any  instance,  presumed  upon  any  opinion  of  their  o^m.  Deprived 
of  his  guiding  influence,  they  were  whirled  about,  the  sport  of  every 
gust,  and  easily  driven  into  any  port:  and  as  those  who  joined  with 
them  in  manning  the  vessel  were  the  most  directly  opposite  to  his 
opinions,  measures,  and  character,  and  far  the  most  artful  and  most 
powenul  of  the  set.  they  easily  prevailed,  so  as  to  seize  upon  the 
vacant,  unoccupied,  and  derelict  minds  of  his  friends:  and  instanth 
they  turned  the  vessel  wholly  out  of  the  course  of  his  policy.  As  il 
it  were  to  insult  as  well  as  to  betray  him.  even  long  before  the  close 
of  the  first  session  of  his  administration,  when  everything  was  pub- 
licly transacted,  and  with  great  parade,  in  his  name,  they  made  an 
act.  declaring  it  highly  just  and  expedient  to  raise  a  revenue  in  Amer- 
ica. For  even  then.  sir.  even  before  this  splendid  orb  was  entirely 
set.  and  while  the  western  horizon  was  in  a  blaze  "with  his  descending 
glory,  on  the  opposite  quarter  of  the  heavens  arose  another  luminar}*, 
and.  for  his  hour,  became  lord  of  the  ascendant. 

This  light-  too,  is  passed  and  set  forever.  You  understand,  to  be 
sure,  that  I  speak  of  Charles  Townshend.  officially  the  reproducer  of 
this  fatal  scheme :  whom  I  cannot  even  now  remember  without  some 
degree  of  sensibility.  In  truth,  sir.  he  was  the  delight  and  ornament 
of  this  house,  and  the  charm  of  every  private  society  which  he  hon- 
ored with  his  presence.  Perhaps  there  never  arose  in  this  countr>', 
nor  in  any  country,  a  man  of  a  more  pointed  and  finished  wit;  and 
;^ where  his  passions  were  not  concerned;  of  a  more  refined,  exquisite, 
and  penetrating  judgment.  If  it  had  not  so  great  a  stock,  as  some 
have  had  who  flourished  formerly,  of  knowledge  long  treasured  up, 
he  knew  better  by  far,  than  any  man  I  ever  was  acquainted  with,  how 
to  bring  together  within  a  short  time  all  that  was  necessary  to  estab- 
lish, to  illustrate,  and  to  decorate  that  side  of  the  question  he  sup- 
ported. He  stated  his  matter  skilfully  and  powerfully.  He  particu- 
larly excelled  in  a  most  luminous  explanation  and  display  of  his 
subject.      His   style   of  argument  was   neither  trite   and   vulgar,   noi 


448  EDMUND  BURKE.  Chap.  XXIIL 

subtle  and  abstruse.  He  hit  the  house  just  between  wind  and  water. 
And  not  being  troubled  with  too  anxious  a  zeal  for  any  matter  in 
question,  he  was  never  more  tedious,  or  more  earnest,  than  the  pre- 
conceived opinions  and  present  temper  of  his  hearers  required ;  to 
whom  he  was  always  in  perfect  unison.  He  conformed  exactlj'  to  the 
temper  of  the  house;  and  he  seemed  to  guide,  because  he  was  always 
sure  to  follow  it. 


From  his  Speech  on  the  Nabob  of  Argot's  Debts,  1785. 

350 •   Invasion  of  the  Car^iatic  by  Hyder  All* 

When  at  length  Hyder  Ali  found  that  he  had  to  do  with  men  who 
either  would  sign  no  convention,  or  whom  no  treaty  and  no  signa- 
ture could  bind,  and  who  were  the  determined  enemies  of  human  in- 
tercourse itself,  he  decreed  to  make  the  country  possessed  by  these 
incorrigible  and  predestinated  criminals  a  memorable  example  to 
mankind.  He  resolved,  in  the  gloomy  recesses  of  a  mind  capacious 
of  such  things,  to  leave  the  whole  Carnatic  an  everlasting  monument 
of  vengeance;  and  to  put  perpetual  desolation  as  a  barrier  between 
him  and  those  against  whom  the  faith  which  holds  the  moral  elements 
of  the  world  together  was  no  protection.  He  became  at  length  so 
confident  of  his  force,  so  collected  in  his  might,  that  he  made  no 
secret  whatsoever  of  his  dreadful  resolution.  Having  terminated  his 
disputes  with  every  enemy,  and  every  rival,  who  buried  their  mutual 
animosities  in  their  common  detestation  against  the  creditors  of  the 
nabob  of  Arcot,  he  drew  from  every  quarter  whatever  a  savage  ferocity 
could  add  to  his  new  rudiments  in  the  arts  of  destruction;  and  com- 
pounding all  the  materials  of  fury,  havoc,  and  desolation  into  one 
black  cloud,  he  hung  for  a  while  on  the  declivities  of  the  mountains. 
Whilst  the  authors  of  all  these  evils  were  idly  and  stupidly  gazing  on 
this  menacing  meteor,  which  blackened  all  their  horizon,  it  suddenly 
burst,  and  poured  down  the  whole  of  its  contents  upon  the  plains  of 
the  Carnatic.  Then  ensued  a  scene  of  woe,  the  like  of  which  no  eye 
had  seen,  no  heart  conceived,  and  which  no  tongue  can  adequately 
tell.  All  the  horrors  of  war  before  known  or  heard  of,  were  mercy  to 
that  new  havoc.  A  storm  of  universal  fire  blasted  every  field,  con- 
sumed every  house,  destroyed  every  temple.  The  miserable  inhabi- 
tants flying  from  their  flaming  villages,  in  part  were  slaughtered, 
others,  without  regard  to  sex,  to  age,  to  the  respect  of  rank,  or  sacred- 
ness  of  function ;  fathers  torn  from  children,  husbands  from  wives, 
enveloped  in  a  whirlwind  of  cavalry,  and  amidst  the  goading  spears 
of  drivers,  and  the  trampling  of  pursuing  horses,  were  swept  into 
captivity,  in  an  unknown  and  hostile  land.  Those  who  were  able  to 
evade  this  tempest  fled  to  the  walled  cities.  But  escaping  from  fire, 
sword,  and  exile,  they  fell  into  the  jaws  of  famine. 

1  The  Carnatic  is  that  region  of  India  ly^ng  between  the  Bay  of  Bengal  and  the  Western  Ghauts,  and 
•^tending  trom  Cape  Com«rin  to  the  River  Kistiia. 


A.  1).  1731-1797.  EDMUND   BURKE.  449 

The  alms  of  the  settlement,  in  this  dreadful  exigency,  were  certainly 
liberal ;  and  all  was  done  by  charity  that  private  charity  could  do  : 
but  it  was  a  people  in  beggary:  it  was  a  nation  which  stretched  out 
its  hands  for  food.  For  months  together  these  creatures  of  surfer- 
ance,  whose  very  excess  and  luxury  in  their  most  plenteous  days  had 
fallen  short  of  the  allowance  of  our  austerest  fasts,  silent,  patient, 
resigned,  without  sedition  or  disturbance,  almost  without  complaint, 
perished  by  a  hundred  a  day  in  the  streets  of  Madras;  every  day 
seventy  at  least  laid  their  bodies  in  the  streets,  or  on  the  glacis  of 
Tanjore,  and  expired  of  famine  in  the  granary  of  India.  I  was  going 
to  awake  your  justice  towards  this  unhappy  part  of  our  fellow-citizens, 
by  bringing  before  you  some  of  the  circumstances  of  this  plague  of 
hunger.  Of  all  the  calamities  which  beset  and  waylay  the  life  of 
man,  this  comes  the  nearest  to  our  heart,  and  is  that  wherein  the 
proudest  of  us  all  feels  himself  to  be  nothing  more  than  he  is  :  but  I 
find  myself  unable  to  manage  it  with  decorum ;  these  details  are  of  a 
species  of  horror  so  nauseous  and  disgusting;  they  are  so  degrading 
to  the  sufferers  and  to  the  hearers;  they  are  so  humiliating  to  human 
nature  itself,  that,  on  better  thoughts,  I  find  it  more  advisable  to 
throw  a  pall  over  this  hideous  object,  and  to  leave  it  to  your  general 
conceptions. 

For  eighteen  months,  without  intermission,  this  destruction  raged 
from  the  gates  of  Madras  to  the  gates  of  Tanjore;  and  so  completely 
did  these  masters  in  their  art,  Hyder  Ali,  and  his  more  ferocious  son, 
absolve  themselves  of  their  impious  vow,  that  when  the  British  armies 
traversed,  as  they  did  the  Carnatic  for  hundreds  of  miles  in  all  direc- 
tions, through  the  whole  line  of  their  march  did  they  not  see  one  man, 
not  one  woman,  not  one  child,  not  one  four-footed  beast  of  any  de- 
scription whatever.  One  dead  uniform  silence  reigned  over  the  whole 
region.  With  the  inconsiderable  exceptions  of  the  narrow  vicinage 
of  some  few  forts,  I  wish  to  be  understood  as  speaking  literally.  I 
mean  to  produce  to  you  more  than  three  witnesses,  above  all  excep- 
tion, who  will  support  this  assertion  in  its  full  extent.  That  hurri- 
cane of  war  passed  through  every  part  of  the  central  provinces  of  the 
Carnatic.  Six  or  seven  districts  lo  the  north  and  to  the  south  (and 
these  not  wholly  untouched)  escaped  the  general  ravage. 

The  Carnatic  is  a  country  not  much  inferior  in  extent  to  England. 
Figure  to  yourself,  Mr.  Speaker,  the  land  in  whose  representative 
chair  you  sit;  figure  to  yourself  the  form  and  fashion  of  your  sweet 
and  cheerful  country  from  Thames  to  Trent,  north  and  south,  and 
from  the  Irish  to  the  German  sea  east  and  west,  emptied  and  embow- 
elled  (may  God  overt  the  omen  of  our  crimes !)  by  so  accomplished  a 
desolation.  Extend  your  imagination  a  little  further,  and  then  sup- 
pose your  ministers  taking  a  survey  of  this  scene  of  waste  and  deso- 
lation ;  what  would  be  your  thoughts  if  you  should  be  informed  that 
they  were  coniputing  how  much  had  been  the  amount  of  the  excises, 
how  much  the  customs,  how  much  the  land  and  malt  tax,  in  order 
that  thej-  should  charge  (take  it  in  the  most  favorable  light)  for  pub- 

29 


450  EDWARD,  LORD   TEURLOW.        Chap.  XXIIL 

lie  service,  upon  the  relics  of  the  satiated  vengeance  of  relentless 
enemies,  the  whole  of  what  England  had  yielded  in  the  most  exuber- 
ant seasons  of  peace  and  abundance?  What  would  you  call  it?  To 
call  it  tyranny,  sublimed  into  madness,  would  be  too  faint  an  image; 
yet  this  very  madness  is  the  principle  upon  which  the  ministers  at 
your  right  hand  have  proceeded  in  their  estimate  of  the  revenues  of 
the  Carnatic,  when  they  were  providing,  not  supply  for  the  establish- 
ments of  its  protection,  but  rewards  for  the  authors  of  its  ruin. 
Extracts  from  Burke's  speeches  are  also  given  on  pages  272-277. 


S51,  Edward,  Lord  Thurlow.     i  732-1806. 

"  Lord  Thurlow,"  says  Mr.  Butler,  in  his  '  Reminiscences,'  "  was  at  times  superla- 
tively great.  It  was  the  good  fortune  of  the  reminiscent  to  hear  his  celebrated  reply 
to  the  Duke  of  Grafton  during  the  inquiry  into  Lord  Sandwich's  administration  of 
Greenwich  Hospital.  His  Grace's  action  and  delivery,  when  he  addressed  the  house, 
were  singularly  dignified  and  graceful  ;  but  his  matter  was  not  equal  to  his  manner. 
He  reproached  Lord  Thurlow  with  his  plebeian  extraction  and  his  recent  admission 
into  the  peerage :  particular  circumstances  caused  Lord  Thurlow's  reply  to  make  a 
deep  impression  on  the  reminiscent.  His  lordship  had  spoken  too  often,  and  began 
to  be  heard  with  a  civil,  but  visible  impatience.  Under  these  circumstances  he  was 
attacked  in  the  manner  we  have  mentioned.  He  rose  from  the  woolsack,  and  ad- 
vanced slowly  to  the  place  from  which  the  Chancellor  generally  addresses  the  house; 
then,  fixing  on  the  duke  the  look  of  Jove  when  he  grasped  the  thunder,  he  said,  in 
a  loud  tone  of  voice,"  — 

I  am  amazed  at  the  attack  the  noble  duke  has  made  on  me.  Yes, 
my  lords  [considerably  raising  his  voice],  I  am  amazed  at  his  Grace's 
speech.  The  noble  duke  cannot  look  before  him,  behind  him,  or  on 
either  side  of  him,  without  seeing  some  noble  peer  who  owes  his  seat 
in  this  house  to  successful  exertions  in  the  profession  to  which  1  be- 
lonsf.  Does  he  not  feel  that  it  is  as  honorable  to  owe  it  to  these,  as  to 
being  the  accident  of  an  accident?  To  all  these  noble  lords  the  lan- 
guage of  the  noble  duke  is  as  applicable  and  as  insulting  as  it  is  to 
myself.  But  I  don't  fear  to  meet  it  single  and  alone.  No  one  vener- 
ates the  peerage  more  than  I  do ;  but,  my  lords,  I  must  say,  that  the 
peerage  solicited  me,  not  I  the  peerage.  Nay,  more,  I  can  say,  and 
will  say,  that  as  a  peer  of  Parliament,  as  Speaker  of  this  right  honor- 
able house,  as  Keeper  of  the  Great  Seal,  as  Guardian  of  his  Majesty's 
Conscience,  as  Lord  High  Chancellor  of  England;  nay,  even  in  that 
character  alone  in  which  the  noble  duke  would  think  it  an  affront  to 
be  considered  —  as  a  man  —  I  am  at  this  moment  as  respectable  —  I 
beg  leave  to  add,  I  am  at  this  moment  as  much  respected  —  as  the 
proudest  peer  I  now  look  down  upon. 

'  The  effect  of  this  speech,  both  within  the  walls  of  Parliament  and  out  of  them, 
was  prodigious.  It  gave  Lord  Thurlow  an  ascendency  in  the  house  which  no  Chan- 
cellor had  ever  possessed;  it  invested  him  in  public  opinion  with  a  character  of  indo- 
pcuflonco  and  honor;  and  this,  though  he  was  ever  on  the  unpopular  side  in  politic* 
Dtade  hiin  ahviiys  popular  with  the  people." 


A.  D.  1759-1806.     WILLIAM  PITT,    THE   YOUNOEB.  451 

William  Pitt,  the  Younger.     1759- 1806. 

i^o2.    From  his  Speech  on  the  Abolition  of  the  Slave-Trade, 

April  2,  1792. 

I  have  shown  how  great  is  the  enormity  of  this  evil,  even  on  the 
supposition  that  we  take  only  convicts  and  prisoners  of  war.     But 
take  the  subject  in  the  other  way;  take  it  on  the  grounds  stated  by 
the  right  honorable  gentlemen  over  the  way,  and  how  does  it  stand.' 
Think  of  eighty  thousand  persons  carried  away  out  of  their  coun- 
try by  we  know  not  what  means  !  for  crimes  imputed  !  for  light  or  in- 
considerable faults  !  for  debt  perhaps!  for  the  crime  of  witchcraft !  or 
a  thousand  other  weak  and  scandalous  pretexts !  besides  all  the  fraud 
and  kidnapping,  the  villanies  and  perfidy,  by  which  the  slave-trade  is 
supplied.     Reflect  on   these  eighty  thousand   persons   thus  annually 
taken  oflf!     There  is  something  in  the  horror  of  it  that  surpasses  all 
the  bounds  of  imagination.     Admitting  that  there  exists   in  Africa 
something  like  to  courts  of  justice;  yet  what  an  office  of  humiliation 
and  meanness  it  is  in  us,  to   take  upon  ourselves  to  carry  into  execu- 
tion the  partial,  the  cruel,  iniquitous  sentences  of  such  courts,  as  if  we 
also  were  strangers  to  all  religion,  and  to  the  first  principles  of  jus- 
tice!    But  that  country,  it  is  said,  has  been  in  some  degree  civilized, 
and  civilized  by  us.     It  is  said  they  have  gained  some  knowledge  of 
the  principles  of  justice.     What,   sir,  have  they  gained  principles  of 
justice  from  us.^*    Their  civilization  brought  about  by  us!     Yes,  we 
gKe  them  enough  of  our  intercourse  to  convey  to  them  the  means, 
and  to  initiate  them  in  the  study,  of  mutual  destruction.     We  give 
them  just  enough  of  the  forms  of  justice  to  enable  them  to  add  the 
pretext  of  legal  trials  to  their  other  modes  of  perpetrating  the  most 
atrocious  iniquity.     We  give  them  just  enough  of  European  improve- 
ments to  enable  them   the  more  effectually  to  turn  Africa  into  a  rav- 
aged wilderness.     Some  evidences  say  that  the  Africans  are  addicted 
to  the  practice  of  gambling;  that  they  even  sell  their  wives  and  chil- 
dren,  and  ultimately  themselves.     Are  these,    then,    the   legitimate 
sources  of  slavery.?     Shall  we  pretend   that  we  can  thus  acquire  an 
honest  right  to  exact  the  labor  of  these  people.''     Can  we  pretend  that 
we  have  a  right  to  carry  away  to  distant   regions  men  of  whom  we 
know  nothing  by   authentic   inquiry,   and  of  whom    there    is   every 
reasonable  presumption  to  think,  that  those  who  sell  them  to  us  have 
no  right  to  do  so.?     But  the  evil  does  not  stop  here.     I  feel  that  there 
is  not  time  for  me  to  make  all  the  remarks  which  the  subject  deserves, 
and  I  refrain  from  attempting  to  enumerate  half  the  dreaclful  conse- 
quences of  this  system.     Do  you  think  nothing  of  the  ruin  and  the 
miseries  in  which  so  many  other  individuals,  still  remaining  in  Africa, 
are   involved,    in  consequence  of  carrying  off  so   many  myriads   oi 
people.?     Do  you  think  nothing  of  their  families  which  are  left  be- 
hind.? of  the  connections  which  are  broken.?  of  the  friendships,  attach- 


i52  WILLIAM  PITT,   TEE   YOUNGER.    Chap.  XX III. 

ments,  and  relationships  that  are  burst  asunder !  Do  you  think  noth- 
ing of  the  miseries  in  consequence,  that  are  felt  from  generation  to 
generation?  of  the  privation  of  that  happiness  which  might  be  com- 
municated to  them  by  the  introduction  of  civilization,  and  of  mental 
and  moral  improvement?  A  happiness  which  you  withhold  from 
them  so  long  as  you  permit  the  slave-trade  to  continue.  What  do  you 
know  of  the  internal  state  of  Africa?  You  have  carried  on  a  trade  to 
that  quarter  of  the  globe  from  this  civilized  and  enlightened  country; 
but  such  a  trade,  that,  instead  of  diffusing  either  knowledge  or  wealth, 
it  has  been  the  check  to  every  laudable  pursuit.  Instead  of  any  fair 
interchange  of  commodities ;  instead  of  conveying  to  them,  from  this 
highly  favored  land,  any  means  of  improvement;  you  carry  with  you 
that  noxious  plant  by  which  everything  is  withered  and  blasted;  under 
whose  shade  nothing  that  is  useful  or  profitable  to  Africa  will  ever 
flourish  or  take  root.  Long  as  that  continent  has  been  known  to  nav- 
igators, the  extreine  line  and  boundaries  of  its  coasts  is  all  with  which 
Europe  is  yet  become  acquainted;  while  other  countries  in  the  same 
parallel  of  latitude,  through  a  happier  system  of  intercourse,  have 
reaped  the  blessings  of  a  mutually  beneficial  commerce.  But  as  to 
the  whole  interior  of  that  continent  you  are,  by  your  own  principles 
of  commerce,  as  yet  entirely  shut  out :  Africa  is  known  to  you  only 
in  its  skirts.  Yet  even  there  you  are  able  to  infuse  a  poison  that 
spreads  its  contagious  effects  from  one  end  of  it  to  the  other,  which 
penetrates  to  its  very  centre,  corrupting  every  part  to  which  it  reaches. 
You  there  subvert  the  whole  order  of  nature ;  you  aggravate  every 
natural  barbarity,  and  furnish  to  every  man  living  on  that  continent 
motives  for  committing,  under  the  name  and  pretext  of  commerce, 
acts  of  perpetual  violence  and  perfidy  against  his  neighbor. 

There  was  a  time,  sir,  which  it  may  be  fit  sometimes  to  revive  in 
the  remembrance  of  our  countrymen,  when  even  human  sacrifices 
are  said  to  have  been  offered  in  this  island.  But  I  would  peculiarly 
observe  on  this  day,  for  it  is  a  case  precisely  in  point,  that  the  very 
practice  of  the  slave-trade  once  prevailed  among  us.  Slaves,  as  we 
may  read  in  Henry's  History  of  Gteat  Britain,  were  formerly  an  estab- 
lished article  of  our  export.  "Great  numbers,"  he  says,  "were  ex- 
ported like  cattle,  from  the  British  coast,  and  were  to  be  seen  exposed 
for  sale  in  the  Roman  market."  It  does  not  distinctly  appear  by  what 
means  they  were  procured ;  but  there  was  unquestionably  no  small 
resemblance,  in  this  particular  point,  between  the  case  of  our  ances- 
tors and  that  of  the  present  wretched  natives  of  Africa —  for  the  his- 
torian tells  you  that  "  adultery,  witchcraft,  and  debt  were  probably 
Bome  of  the  chief  sources  of  supplying  the  Roman  market  with  British 
slaves  —  that  prisoners  taken  in  war  were  added  to  the  number  —  and 
that  there  might  be  among  them  some  unfortunate  gamesters,  who, 
after  having  lost  all  their  goods,  at  length  staked  themselves,  their 
wives,  and  their  children."  Every  one  of  these  sources  of  slavery  has 
been  stated,  and  almost  precisely  in  the  same  terms,  to  be  at  this 


A.  D.  1759-1806.     WILLIAM  PITT,    THE    YOUNGEB.  453 

hour  a  source  of  slavery  in  Africa.  And  these  circumstances,  sir, 
with  a  solitary  instance  or  two  of  human  sacrifices,  furnish  the  alleged 
proofs,  that  Africa  labors  under  a  natural  incapacity  for  civilization ; 
that  it  is  enthusiasm  and  fanaticism  to  think  that  she  can  ever  enjoy 
the  knowledge  and  the  morals  of  Europe ;  that  Providence  never  in- 
tended her  to  rise  above  a  state  of  barbarism  ;  that  Providence  has 
irrevocably  doomed  her  to  be  only  a  nursery  for  slaves  for  us  free  and 
civilized  Europeans.  Allow  of  this  principle,  as  applied  to  Africa, 
and  I  should  be  glad  to  know  why  it  might  not  also  have  been  applied 
to  ancient  and  uncivilized  Britain.  Why  might  not  some  Roman 
senator,  reasoning  on  the  principles  of  some  honorable  gentlemen, 
and  pointing  to  Byiiisk  barbaj'iatis,  have  predicted  with  equal  bold- 
ness, "  There  is  a  people  that  will  never  rise  to  civilization  —  i/iere  is 
a  people  destined  never  to  be  free  —  a  people  without  the  understand- 
ing necessary  for  the  attainment  of  useful  arts;  depressed  by  the  hand 
of  nature  below  the  level  of  the  human  species ;  and  created  to  form 
a  supply  of  slaves  for  the  rest  of  the  world."  Might  not  this  have 
been  said,  according  to  the  principles  which  we  now  hear  stated,  in 
all  respects  as  fairly  and  as  truly  of  Britain  herself,  at  that  period 
of  her  history,  as  it  can  now  be  said  by  us  of  the  inhabitants  of 
Africa .'' 

We,  sir,  have  long  since  emerged  from  barbarism — we  have  almost 
forgotten  that  we  were  once  barbarians  —  we  are  now  raised  to  a 
situation  which  exhibits  a  striking  contrast  to  every  circumstance  by 
which  a  Roman  might  have  characterized  us,  and  by  which  we  now 
cliaracterize  Africa.  There  is  indeed  one  thing  wanting  to  complete 
the  contrast,  and  to  clear  us  altogether  from  the  imputation  of  acting, 
even  to  this  hour,  as  barbarians;  for  we  continue  to  this  hour  a  bar- 
barous traffic  in  slaves;  we  continue  it  even  yet  in  spite  of  all  our 
great  and  undeniable  pretensions  to  civilization.  We  were  once  as 
obscure  among  the  nations  of  the  earth,  as  savage  in  our  manners, 
as  debased  in  our  morals,  as  degraded  in  our  understanding,  as  these 
unhappy  Africans  are  at  present.  But  in  the  laspe  of  a  long  series 
of  years,  by  a  progression  slow,  and  for  a  time  almost  imperceptible, 
we  have  become  rich  in  a  variety  of  acquirements,  favored  above 
measure  in  the  gifts  of  Providence,  unrivalled  in  commerce,  pre- 
eminent in  arts,  foremost  in  the  pursuits  of  philosophy  and  science, 
and  established  in  all  the  blessings  of  civil  society:  we  are  in  the  pos- 
session of  peace,  of  happiness,  and  of  liberty;  we  are  under  the  guid- 
ance of  a  mild  and  beneficent  religion;  and  we  are  protected  by 
impartial  laws,  and  the  purest  administration  of  justice ;  we  are  living 
under  a  system  of  government,  which  our  own  happy  experience 
leads  us  to  pronounce  the  best  and  wisest  which  has  ever  yet  been 
framed;  a  system  which  has  become  the  admiration  of  the  world. 
From  all  these  blessings  we  must  forever  have  been  shut  out,  had 
there  been  any  truth  in  those  principles  which  some  gentlemen  have 
not  hesitated  to  lay  down  as  applicable  to  the  case  of  Africa.     Had 


454  CHARLES  JAMES  FOX.  Chap.  XXIIL 

those  principles  been  true,  we  ourselves  had  languished  to  this  hour 
in  that  miserable  state  of  ignorance,  brutality,  and  degradaticn,  in 
which  history  proves  our  ancestors  to  have  been  immersed.  Had 
other  nations  adopted  these  principles  in  their  conduct  towarcis  us ; 
had  other  nations  applied  to  Great  Britain  the  reasoning  which  some 
of  the  senators  of  this  very  island  now  apply  to  Africa,  ages  might 
1  ave  passed  without  our  emerging  from  barbarism ;  and  we,  who  are 
enjoying  the  blessings  of  British  civilization,  of  British  laws,  and 
British  liberty,  might  at  this  hour  have  been  little  superior,  either  in 
morals,  in  knowledge,  or  refinement,  to  the  rude  inhabitants  of  the 
coast  of  Guinea. 

If  then  we  feel  that  this  perpetual  confinement  in  the  fetters  of 
brutal  ignorance  would  have  been  the  greatest  calamity  which  could 
have  befallen  us;  if  we  view  with  gratitude  and  exultation  the  con- 
trast between  the  peculiar  blessings  we  enjoy  and  the  wretchedness 
of  the  ancient  inhabitants  of  Britain  ;  if  we  shudder  to  think  of  the 
misery  which  would  still  have  overwhelmed  us,  had  Great  Britain 
continued  to  the  present  times  to  be  the  mart  for  slaves  to  the  more 
civilized  nations  of  the  world,  through  some  cruel  policy  of  theirs, 
God  forbid  that  we  should  any  longer  subject  Africa  to  the  same 
dreadful  scourge,  and  preclude  the  light  of  knowledge,  which  has 
reached  every  other  quarter  of  the  globe,  from  having  access  to  her 
coasts  ? 


Charles  James  Fox.     1749- 1806. 

3S3,    From  his  Speech  on  the  Address  on  the  King's 

Speech,  Nov.  26,  177S. 

You  have  now  two  wars  before  you,  of  which  you  must  choose  one, 
for  both  you  cannot  support.  The  war  against  America  has  hitherto 
been  carried  on  against  her  alone,  unassisted  by  any  ally;  notwith- 
standing she  stood  alone,  you  have  been  obliged  uniformly  to  increase 
your  exertions,  and  to  push  your  eftbrts  in  the  end  to  the  extent  of 
your  power,  without  being  able  to  bring  it  to  any  favorable  issue  : 
you  have  exerted  all  your  force  hitherto  without  effect,  and  you  cannot 
now  divide  a  force  found  already  inadequate  to  its  object.  My  opinion 
s  for  withdrawing  your  forces  from  America  entirely,  for  a  defensive 
war  you  can  never  think  of;  a  defensive  war  would  ruin  this  nation 
at  anytime,  and  in  any  circumstances :  an  offensive  war  is  pointed 
out  as  proper  for  this  country;  our  situation  points  it  out,  and  the 
spirit  of  the  nation  impels  us  to  attack  rather  than  defence  :  attack 
France,  then,  for  she  is  your  object.  The  nature  of  the  war  with  her 
is  quite  different:  the  war  against  America  is  against  your  own  coun- 
trymen—  you  have  stopped  me  from  saying  again-st  your  fellow-sub- 
jects; that  against  France  is  against  your  inveterate  enemy  and  rival. 
Every  blow  you  strike  in  America  is  against  yourselves:  it  is  against 


A.  I).  1749-1806.        CHARLES  JAMES   FOX.  455 

all  ideas  of  reconciliation,  »nd  against  your  own  interest,  though  you 
should  be  able,  as  you  never  will,  to  force  them  to  submit.  Every 
stroke  against  France  is  of  advantage  to  you ;  the  more  you  lower  the 
scale  in  which  France  lays  in  the  balance,  the  more  your  own  rises, 
and  the  more  the  Americans  will  be  detached  from  her  as  useless  to 
them.  Even  your  own  victories  over  America  are  in  favor  of  France, 
from  what  they  must  cost  you  in  men  and  money;  your  victories  over 
France  will  be  felt  by  her  ally.  America  must  be  conquered  in 
France;  France  never  can  be  conquered  in  America. 

The  war  of  the  Americans  is  a  war  of  passion;  it  is  of  such  a 
nature  as  to  be  supported  by  the  most  powerful  virtues  —  love  of  lib- 
erty and  of  country;  and,  at  the  same  time,  by  those  passions  in  the 
human  heart,  which  give  courage,  strength,  and  perseverance  to  man 
—  the  spirit  of  revenge  for  the  injuries  you  have  done  them;  of  retal- 
iation for  the  hardships  you  have  inflicted  on  them  ;  and  of  opposition 
to  the  unjust  powers  you  have  exercised  over  them.  Everything  com- 
bines to  animate  them  to  this  war,  and  such  a  war  is  without  end; 
for,  whatever  obstinacy  enthusiasm  ever  inspired  man  with,  you  will 
now  find  it  in  America ;  no  matter  what  gives  birth  to  that  enthusiasm, 
whether  the  name  of  religion  or  of  liberty,  the  eftects  are  the  same; 
it  inspires  a  spirit  that  is  unconquerable,  and  solicitous  to  undergo 
difficulty,  danger,  and  hardship  :  and  as  long  as  there  is  a  man  in 
America,  a  being  formed  such  as  we  are,  you  will  have  him  present 
himself  against  you  in  the  field. 

The  war  of  France  is  of  another  sort;  the  war  of  France  is  a  war 
of  interest:  it  was  her  interest  first  induced  her  to  engage  in  it,  and 
it  is  by  that  interest  that  she  will  measure  its  continuance.  Turn 
your  face  at  once  against  her;  attack  her  wherever  she  is  exposed, 
crush  her  commerce  wherever  you  can,  make  her  feel  heavy  and  im- 
mediate distress  throughout  the  nation  :  the  people  will  soon  cry  out 
to  their  government.  Whilst  the  advantages  she  promises  herself  are 
remote  and  uncertain,  inflict  present  evils  and  distresses  upon  her 
subjects ;  the  people  will  become  discontented  and  clamorous :  she 
will  find  the  having  entered  into  this  business  a  bad  bargain ;  and  you 
will  force  her  to  desert  an  ally  that  brings  so  much  trouble  and  dis- 
tress, and  the  advantages  of  whose  alliance  may  never  take  effect. 


334,    From  his  Speech  on  the  Overtures  of  Peace  from 
THE  First  Consul,  Feb.  3,  iSoo. 

Now,  sir,  what  was  the  conduct  of  your  own  allies  to  Poland.?  Is 
there  a  single  atrocity  of  the  French,  in  Italy,  in  Switzerland,  in 
Egypt,  if  you  please,  more  unprincipled  and  inhuman  than  that  of 
Russia,  Austria,  and  Prussia,  in  Poland.''  What  has  there  been  in  the 
conduct  of  the  French  to  foreign  powers ;  what  in  the  violation  of 
solemn  treaties;  what  in  the  plunder,  devastation,  and  dismember- 
ment  of  unoffending  countries;  what  in  the  horrors  and  murders  per* 


456  CHARLES  JAMES  FOX.  Chai.  XXIIL 

petrated  upon  the  subdued  victims  of  their  rage  in  any  district  which 
they  have  overrun  ;  worse  than  the  conduct  of  those  three  great  powers 
in  the  mi.scrable,  devoted,  and  trampled-on  kingdom  of  Poland,  and 
who  have  been,  or  are,  our  allies  in  this  war  for  religion,  social  order, 
and  the  rights  of  nations?  "O!  but  we  regretted  the  partition  of 
Poland!"  Yes,  regretted!  You  regretted  the  violence,  and  that  is 
all  you  did.  You  united  yourselves  with  the  actors;  you,  in  fact,  by 
your  acquiescence,  confirmed  the  atrocity.  But  they  are  your  allies ; 
and  though  they  overran  and  divided  Poland,  there,  was  nothing,  per- 
haps, in  the  manner  of  doing  it,  which  stamped  it  with  peculiar 
infamy  and  disgrace.  The  hero  of  Poland,  perhaps,  was  merciful 
and  mild  !  He  was  as  much  superior  to  Bonaparte  in  bravery,  and 
in  the  discipline  which  he  maintained,  as  he  was  superior  in  virtue 
and  humanity!  He  was  animated  by  the  purest  principles  of  Chris- 
tianity, and  was  restrained  in  his  career  by  the  benevolent  precepts 
which  it  inculcates!  Was  he.''  Let  unforunate  Warsaw,  and  the 
miserable  inhabitants  of  the  suburb  of  Praga  in  particular,  tell ! 
What  do  we  understand  to  have  been  the  conduct  of  this  magnani- 
mous hero,  with  whom,  it  seems,  Bonaparte  is  not  to  be  compared.? 
He  entered  the  suburb  of  Praga,  the  most  populous  suburb  of  Warsaw, 
and  there  he  let  his  soldiery  loose  on  the  miserable,  unarmed,  and 
unresisting  people!  Men,  women,  and  children,  nay,  infants  at  the 
breast,  were  doomed  to  one  indiscriminate  massacre!  Thousands  of 
them  were  inhumanly,  wantonly  butchered  !  And  for  what.''  Because 
they  had  dared  to  join  in  a  wish  to  meliorate  their  own  condition  as  a 
people,  and  to  improve  their  constitution,  which  had  been  confessed 
by  their  own  sovereign  to  be  in  want  of  amendment.  And  such  is 
the  hero  upon  whom  the  cause  of  "  religion  and  social  order"  is  to 
repose!  And  such  is  the  man  whom  we  praise  for  his  discipline  and 
his  virtue,  and  whom  we  hold  out  as  our  boast  and  our  dependence, 
while  the  conduct  of  Bonapai"te  unfits  him  to  be  even  treated  with  as 
an  enemy ! 


From  Butler's  **  Reminiscences." 
SSS,   Character  of  Mr.  Fox  and  Mr.  Pitt. 

Almost  the  whole  of  Mr.  Fox's  political  life  was  spent  in  opposition 
to  his  Majesty's  ministers.  It  may  be  said  of  him,  as  of  Lord  North, 
that  he  had  political  adversaries,  but  no  enemy.  Good  nature,  too 
easily  carried  to  excess,  was  one  of  the  distinctive  marks  of  his  char- 
acter. In  vehemence  and  power  of  argument  he  resembled  Demos- 
thenes;' but  there  the  resemblance  ended.  He  possessed  a  strain  of 
lidicule  and  wit  which  nature  denied  to  the  Athenian;  and  it  was 
the  more  powerful,  as  it  always  appeared  to  be  blended  with  argu- 
ment, and  to  result  from  it.  To  the  perfect  composition  which  so 
eminently  distinguishes  the  speeches  of  Demosthenes,  he  had  no 
pretence. 


A.  D.  1750-1820.  HENRY  GRATTAN.  457 

The  moment  of  his  grandeur  was,  when,  —  after  he  had  stated  the 
argument  of  his  ad\ersary,  with  much  greater  strength  than  his 
adversary  had  done,  and  with  much  greater  than  any  of  his  hearers 
thought  possible,  —  he  seized  it  with  the  strength  of  a  giant,  and  tore 
and  trampled  on  it  to  destruction.  If,  at  this  moment,  he  had  pos- 
sessed the  power  of  the  Athenian  over  the  passions  or  the  imagina- 
tions of  his  hearers,  he  might  have  disposed  of  the  House  at  his 
pleasure,  —  but  this  was  denied  to  him:  and,  on  this  account,  his 
speeches  fell  very  short  of  the  effect  which  otherwise  they  must  have 
produced. 

It  is  difficult  to  decide  on  the  comparative  merit  of  him  and  Mi. 
Pitt:  the  latter  had  not  the  vehement  reasoning  or  argumentative 
ridicule  of  Mr.  Fox;  but  he  had  more  splendor,  more  imagery,  and 
much  more  method  and  discretion.  His  long,  lofty,  and  reverential 
panegyrics  of  the  British  constitution,  his  eloquent  vituperations  of 
those  whom  he  described  as  advocating  the  democratic  spirit  then  let 
loose  on  the  inhabitants  of  the  earth,  and  his  solemn  adjuration  of 
the  House  to  defend  and  to  assist  him  in  defending  their  all  against 
it,  were,  in  the  highest  degree,  both  imposing  and  conciliating,  In 
addition,  he  had  the  command  of  bitter  contemptuous  sarcasm,  which 
tortured  to  madness.  This  he  could  expand  or  compress  at  pleasure  : 
even  in  one  member  of  a  sentence,  he  coult  inflict  a  wound  that  was 
never  healed. 

Mr.  Fox  had  a  captivating  earnestness  of  tone  and  manner;  Mr. 
Pitt  was  more  dignified  than  earnest.  The  action  of  Mr.  Fox  was 
easy  and  graceful ;  Mr.  Pitt's  cannot  be  praised.  It  was  an  observa- 
tion of  the  reporters  in  the  gallery,  that  it  requn-ed  great  exertion  to 
follow  Mr.  Fox  while  he  was  speaking;  none  to  remember  what  he 
had  said  :  that  it  was  easy  and  delightful  to  follow  Mr.  Pitt ;  not  so 
easy  to  recollect  what  had  delighted  them.  It  may  be  added,  that,  in 
all  Mr.  Fox's  speeches,  even  when  he  was  most  violent,  there  was  an 
unquestionable  indication  of  good  humor  which  attracted  every  heart. 
Where  there  was  such  a  seeming  equipoise  of  merit,  the  two  last  cir- 
cumstances might  be  thought  to  turn  the  scale:  but  Mr.  Pitt's  unde- 
viating  circumspection,  —  sometimes  concealed,  sometimes  ostenta- 
tiously displayed,  —  tended  to  obtain  for  him,  from  the  considerate 
Rnd  the  grave,  a  confidence  which  they  denied  to  his  rival. 


Henry  Grattan.      i  750-1 820. 

S3G,   Attack  upon  Mr.  Flood. 

Thus  defective  in  every  relationship,  whether  to  constitution,  com- 
merce, and  toleration,  I  will  suppose  this  man  to  have  added  much 
private  improbity  to  public  crimes ;  that  his  probity  was  like  his 
patriotism,  and  his  honor  on  a  level  with  his  oath ;  he  loves  to  deliver 
panegyrics  on  himself.     I  will   interrupt  him,  and   say,  Sir,  j-ou  are 


458  HENRY  OR  ATT  AN.  Chap.  XXIII. 

much  mistaken  if  you  think  that  jour  talents  have  been  as  great  as 
jour  life  has  been  reprehensible;  jou  began  jour  parliamentarj  ca- 
reer with  an  acrimonj  and  personalitj  which  could  have  been  justified 
onlj  bj  a  supposition  of  virtue ;  after  a  rank  and  clamorous  opposi- 
tion, jou  became  on  a  sudden  silent ;  j^ou  were  silent  for  seven  jears : 
jou  were  silent  on  the  greatest  questions,  and  jou  were  silent  fol 
monej!  In  1773,  while  a  negotiation  was  pending  to  sell  jour  talents 
and  joui  turbulence,  jou  absconded  from  jour  dutj  in  Parliament, 
you  forsook  jour  law  of  Pojnings,  jou  forsook  the  questions  of  econ- 
omj,  and  abandoned  all  the  old  themes  of  jour  former  declamation : 
you  were  not  at  that  period  to  be  found  in  the  House;  jou  were  seen, 
like  a  guiltj  spirit,  haunting  the  lobbj  of  the  House  of  Commons, 
watching  the  moment  in  which  the  question  should  be  put,  that  jou 
might  vanish ;  jou  were  descried  with  a  criminal  anxietj,  retiring 
from  the  scenes  of  jour  past  glorj;  or  jou  were  perceived  coasting 
the  upper  benches  of  this  House,  like  a  bird  of  prej,  with  an  evil 
aspect  and  a  sepulchral  note,  meditating  to  pounce  on  its  quarrj :  — 
these  wajs,  thej  were  not  the  wajs  of  honor,  jou  practised  pending 
a  negotiation  which  was  to  end  either  in  jour  sale  or  jour  sedition  : 
the  former  taking  place,  jou  supported  the  rankest  measures  that 
ever  came  before  Parliament;  the  embargo  of  1776,  for  instance. 
"  O,  fatal  embargo,  that  breach  of  law,  and  ruin  of  commerce!" 
You  supported  the  unparalleled  profusion  and  jobbing  of  Lord  Har- 
court's  scandalous  ministry;  the  address  to  support  the  American 
war;  the  other  address  to  send  four  thousand  men,  which  jou  had 
jourself  declared  to  be  necessarj  for  the  defence  of  Ireland,  to  fight 
against  the  liberties  of  America,  to  which  jou  had  declared  jourself 
a  friend;  —  jou,  sir,  who  delight  to  utter  execrations  against  the 
American  commissioners  of  1778,  on  account  of  their  hostility  to 
America;  —  jou,  sir,  who  manufacture  stage-thunder  against  Mr. 
Eden,  for  his  anti-American  principles;  —  3'ou,  sir,  whom  it  pleases 
to  chant  a  hjmn  to  the  immortal  Hampden;  —  jou,  sir,  approved 
©f  the  tyi^annj  exercised  against  America;  —  and  jou,  sir,  voted  four 
thousand  Irish  troops  to  cut  the  throats  of  the  Americans  fighting  for 
their  freedom,  fighting  for  jour  freedom,  fighting  for  the  gi-eat  prin- 
ciple, liberty ;  but  jou  found,  at  last  (and  this  should  be  an  eternal 
lesson  to  men  of  jour  craft  and  cunning),  that  the  king  had  onlj 
dishonored  jou;  the  court  had  bought,  but  would  not  trust  jou;  and 
having  voted  for  the  worst  measures,  jou  remained,  for  seven  jears, 
the  creature  of  salary,  without  the  confidence  of  government.  Mor- 
tified at  the  discoverj,  and  stung  bj  disappointment,  you  betake  your- 
self to  the  sad  expedients  of  duplicity ;  you  try  the  sorry  game  of  a 
trimmer  in  your  progress  to  the  acts  of  an  incendiary;  you  give  no 
honest  support  either  to  the  government  or  the  people;  you,  at  the 
most  critical  period  of  their  existence,  take  no  part,  you  sign  no 
non-consumption  agreement,  you  are  no  volunteer,  you  oppose  no 
perpetual  mutiny  billj  no  altered  sugar  bill;  you  declare,  that  ^ou 


d.  D.  1750-1820.  HEXBY   GRATTAN.  Ab\^ 

lament  that  the  declaration  of  right  should  have  been  brought  for- 
ward;  and  observing,  with  regard  to  prince  and  people,  the  most 
impartial  treachery  and  desertion,  you  justify  the  suspicion  of  youi 
sovereign,  by  betraying  the  government  as  you  had  sold  the  people  : 
until,  at  last,  by  this  hollow  conduct,  and  for  some  other  steps,  the 
result  of  mortified  ambition,  being  dismissed,  and  another  person 
put  in  your  place,  you  fly  to  the  ranks  of  the  volunteers,  and  canvass 
for  mutiny;  you  announce  that  the  country  was  ruined  by  other  men 
during  that  period  in  which  she  had  been  sold  by  you.  Your  logic  is, 
that  the  repeal  of  a  declaratory  law  is  not  the  repeal  of  a  law  at  all, 
and  the  effect  of  that  logic  is,  an  English  act  affecting  to  emancipate 
Ireland,  by  exercising  over  her  the  legislative  authority  of  the  British 
Parliament.  Such  has  been  your  conduct,  and  at  such  conduct  every 
order  of  your  fellow-subjects  have  a  right  to  exclaim  !  The  merchant 
may  say  to  you  —  the  constitutionalist  may  say  to  you  —  the  American 
may  say  to  you  —  and  I,  I  now  say,  and  say  to  your  beard,  sir,  you 
are  not  an  honest  man. 


3S7»    Speech  against  Napoleon,  May  25,  1815. 

The  proposition  that  we  should  not  interfere  with  the  government 
of  other  nations  is  true,  but  true  with  qualifications.  If  the  govern- 
ment of  any  other  country  contains  an  insurrectionary  principle,  as 
France  did,  when  she  offered  to  aid  the  insurrection  of  her  neighbors, 
your  interference  is  warranted ;  if  the  government  of  another  country 
contains  the  principle  of  universal  empire,  as  France  did,  and  pro- 
mulgated, your  interference  is  justifiable.  Gentlemen  may  call  this 
internal  government,  but  I  call  this  conspiracj'.  If  the  government 
of  another  country  maintains  a  predatory  army,  such  as  Bonaparte's, 
with  a  view  to  hostility  and  conquest,  your  interference  is  just.  He 
may  call  this  internal  government,  but  I  call  this  a  preparation  for 
war.  No  doubt  he  will  accompany  this  with  offers  of  peace,  but  such 
offers  of  peace  are  nothing  more  than  one  of  the  arts  of  war,  attended, 
most  assuredly,  by  charging  on  you  the  odium  of  a  long  and  pro- 
tracted contest,  and  with  much  commonplace,  and  many  good  saws 
and  sayings  of  the  miseries  of  bloodshed,  and  the  savings  and  good 
husbandry  of  peace,  and  the  comforts  of  a  quiet  life  :  but  if  you  listen 
to  this,  you  will  be  much  deceived;  not  only  deceived,  but  you  will 
be  beaten.  Again^  if  the  government  of  another  country  covers 
more  ground  in  Europe,  and  destroys  the  balance  of  power,  so  as  to 
threaten  the  independence  of  other  nations,  this  is  a  cause  of  your 
interference.  Such  was  the  principle  upon  which  we  acted  in  the  best 
times  :  such  was  the  principle  of  the  grand  alliance,  such  was  the 
triple  alliance,  and  such  the  quadruple;  and  by  such  principles  has 
Europe  not  only  been  regulated,  but  protected.  If  a  foreign  govern- 
ment does  any  of  those  acts  I  have  mentioned,  we  have  a  cause  of 
war;  but  if  a  foreign  power  does  all  of  them,  —  forms  a  conspiracj 


460  HENRY  OR  AT  TAN.  Chap.  XXIII 

for  universal  empire,  keeps  up  an  army  for  that  purpose,  employs 
that  army  to  overturn  the  balance  of  power,  and  attempts  the  conquest 
of  Europe, — attempts,  do  I  say?  in  a  great  degree  achieves  it  (for 
what  else  was  Bonaparte's  dominion  before  the  battle  of  Leipsic?)  — 
and  then  receives  an  overthrow;  owes  its  deliverence  to  treaties  which 
give  that  power  its  life,  and  these  countries  their  security  (for  what 
did  you  get  from  France  but  security?)  — if  this  power,  I  say,  avails 
itself  of  the  conditions  in  the  treaties,  which  give  it  colonies,  prison- 
ers, and  deliverence,  and  breaks  those  conditions  which  give  you 
security,  and  resumes  the  same  situation  which  renders  this  power 
capable  of  repeating  the  same  atrocity,  —  has  England,  or  has  she 
not,  a  right  of  war? 

Having  considered  the  two  questions,  —  that  of  ability  and  that  of 
right,  —  and  having  shown  that  you  are  justified  on  either  considera- 
tion to  go  to  war,  let  me  now  suppose  that  you  treat  for  peace.  First, 
you  will  have  peace  upon  a  war  establishment,  and  then  a  war  without 
your  present  allies.  It  is  not  certain  that  you  will  have  any  of  them, 
but  it  is  certain  that  you  will  not  have  the  same  combination,  while 
Bonaparte  increases  his  power  by  confirmation  of  his  title,  and  by 
further  preparation ;  so  that  you  will  have  a  bad  peace  and  a  bad  war. 
Were  I  disposed  to  treat  for  peace  I  would  not  agree  to  the  amend- 
ment, because  it  disperses  your  allies  and  strengthens  your  enemy, 
and  says  to  both,  we  will  quit  our  alliance  to  confirm  Napoleon  on  the 
throne  of  France,  that  he  may  hereafter  more  advantageouslj'  fight  us, 
as  he  did  before,  for  the  throne  af  England. 

Gentlemen  set  forth  the  pretensions  of  Bonaparte ;  gentlemen  say, 
that  he  has  given  liberty  to  the  press ;  he  has  given  liberty  to  publica- 
tion, to  be  afterwards  tried  and  punished  according  to  the  present 
constitution  of  France,  as  a  military  chief  pleases;  that  is  to  say,  he 
has  given  liberty  to  the  French  to  hang  themselves.  Gentlemen  say, 
he  has  in  his  dominions  abolished  the  slave-trade :  I  am  unwilling  to 
deny  him  praise  for  such  an  act;  but  if  we  praise  him  for  giving  liberty 
to  the  African,  let  us  not  assist  him  in  imposing  slavery  on  the  Euro- 
pean. Gentlemen  say,  will  you  make  war  upon  character?  But  the 
question  is,  will  you  trust  a  government  without  one?  What  will  you 
do  if  you  are  conquered,  say  gentlemen?  I  answer,  the  very  thing 
you  must  do  if  you  treat — abandon  the  Low  Countries.  But  the 
question  is,  in  which  case  are  you  most  likely  to  be  conquered  —  with 
allies  or  without  them?  Either  you  must  abandon  the  Low  Coun- 
tries, or  you  must  preserve  them  by  arms,  for  Bonaparte  will  not  be 
withheld  by  treaty.  If  you  abandon  them,  you  will  lose  your  situa- 
tion on  the  globe;  and  instead  of  being  a  medium  of  communication 
and  commerce  between  the  new  and  the  old,  you  will  become  an 
anxious  station  between  two  fires  —  the  continent  of  America,  ren- 
dered hostile  by  the  intrigues  of  France,  and  the  continent  of  Europe, 
possessed  by  her  arms.  It  then  remains  for  you  to  determine,  if  you 
do  not  abandon  the  Low  Countries,  in  what  way  you  mean  to  de- 
fend them  —  alone  or  with  allies. 


A.  1).  17o0-1820.  HENRY  GRATTAN.  461 

Gentlemen  complain  of  the  allies,  and  say,  they  have  partitioneil 
such  a  country,  and  transferred  such  a  country,  and  seized  on  such  a 
country.  What!  will  they  quarrel  with  their  ally,  who  has  possessed 
himself  of  a  part  of  Saxony,  and  shake  hands  with  Bonaparte,  who 
proposes  to  take  possession  of  England?  If  a  prince  takes  Venice, 
we  are  indignant;  but  if  he  seizes  on  a  great  part  of  Europe,  and 
stands  covered  with  the  blood  of  millions,  and  the  spoils  of  half  man- 
kind, our  indignation  ceases;  vice  becomes  gigantic,  conquers  the 
understanding,  and  mankind  begin  by  wonder,  and  conclude  by  wor- 
ship. The  character  of  Bonaparte  is  admirably  calculated  for  this 
effect:  he  invests  himself  with  much  theatrical  grandeur;  he  is  a  great 
actor  in  the  tragedy  of  his  own  government;  the  fire  of  his  genius 
precipitates  on  universal  empire,  certain  to  destroy  his  neighbors  or 
himself;  better  formed  to  acquire  empire  than  to  keep  it,  he  is  a  hero 
and  a  calamity,  formed  to  punish  France  and  to  perplex  Europe. 

The  authority  of  Mr.  Fox  has  been  alluded  to  —  a  great  authority, 
and  a  great  man;  his  name  excites  tenderness  and  wonder.  To  do 
justice  to  that  immortal  person,  you  must  not  limit  your  view  to  this 
country  :  his  genius  was  not  confined  to  England  ;  it  acted  three  hun- 
dred miles  off,  in  breaking  the  chains  of  Ireland ;  it  was  seen  three 
thousand  miles  off,  in  communicating  freedom  to  the  Americans;  it 
was  visible,  I  know  not  how  far  off,  in  ameliorating  the  condition  of 
the  Indian ;  it  was  discernible  on  the  coast  of  Africa,  in  accomplish- 
ing the  abolition  of  the  slave-trade.  You  are  to  measure  the  magni- 
tude of  his  mind  by  parallels  of  latitude.  His  heart  was  as  soft  as 
that  of  a  woman,  his  intellect  was  adamant;  his  weaknesses  were  vir- 
tues—  they  protected  him  against  the  hard  habit  of  a  politician,  and 
assisted  nature  to  make  him  amiable  and  interesting.  The  question 
discussed  by  Mr.  Fox  in  1792  was,  whether  you  would  treat  with  a 
revolutionary  government;  the  present  is,  whether  you  will  confirm 
a  military  and  a  hostile  one.  You  will  observe,  that  when  Mr.  Fox 
was  ready  to  treat,  the  French,  it  was  understood,  were  to  evacuate 
the  Low  Countries.  If  you  confirm  the  present  government,  you 
must  expect  to  lose  them.  Mr.  Fox  objected  to  the  idea  of  driving 
France  upon  her  resources,  lest  you  should  make  her  a  military  gov- 
ernment. The  question  now  is,  whether  you  will  make  that  military 
government  perpetual.  I  therefoie  do  not  think  the  theory  of  Mr. 
Fox  can  be  quoted  against  us;  and  the  practice  of  Mr.  Fox  tends  tc 
establish  our  proposition,  for  he  treated  with  Bonaoarte,  and  tailed. 
Mr.  Fox  was  tenacious  of  England,  and  would  never  yield  an  iota 
of  her  superiority;  but  the  failure  of  the  attempt  to  treat  was  to  bs 
found,  not  in  Mr.  Fox,  but  in  Bonaparte. 


462  RICEaRD  BRINSLEY  SHERIDAN.    Chap.  XXIII 

Richard  Brinsley  Sheridan.     1751-1816. 

338»   From  his  Speech  against  Warren  Hastings  in  the 
House  of  Commons,  Feb.  7,  1787. 

I  recollect  to  have  heard  it  advanced  by  some  of  those  admirers  of 
Mr.  Hastings,  who  were  not  so  implicit  as  to  give  unqualified  applause 
to  his  crimes,  that  they  found  an  apology  for  the  atrocity  of  them,  in 
the  greatness  of  his  mind.  To  estimate  the  solidity  of  such  a  defence, 
it  would  be  sufficient  merely  to  consider  in  what  consisted  this  pre- 
possessing distinction,  this  captivating  characteristic  of  greatness  of 
mind.  Is  it  not  solely  to  be  traced  in  great  actions  directed  to  great 
ends.?  In  them,  and  them  alone,  we  are  to  search  for  true  estimable 
magnanimity.  To  them  only  can  we  justly  affix  the  splendid  title 
and  honors  of  real  greatness.  There  is  indeed  another  species  of 
greatness,  which  displays  itself  in  boldly  conceiving  a  bad  measure, 
and  undauntedly  pursuing  it  to  its  accomplishment.  But  had  Mr. 
Hastings  the  merit  of  exhibiting  either  of  these  descriptions  of  great- 
ness.?—  even  of  the  latter.?  I  see  nothing  great  —  nothing  magnani- 
mous—  nothing  open  —  nothing  direct  in  his  measures,  or  in  his 
mind;  —  on  the  contrary,  he  has  too  often  pursued  the  worst  objects 
by  the  worst  means.  His  course  was  an  eternal  deviation  from  recti- 
tude. He  either  tyrannized  or  deceived  ;  and  was  by  turns  a  Dionysius 
and  a  Scapin.  As  well  might  the  writhing  obliquity  of  the  serpent 
be  compared  to  the  swift  directness  of  the  arrow,  as  the  duplicity  of 
Mr.  Hastings'  ambition  to  the  simple  steadiness  of  genuine  magna- 
nimity. In  his  mind  all  was  shuffling,  ambiguous,  dark,  insidious,  and 
little:  nothing  simple,  nothing  unmixed:  all  affected  plainness,  and 
actual  dissimulation;  a  heterogeneous  mass  of  contradictory  qualities; 
with  nothing  great  but  his  crimes ;  and  even  those  contrasted  by  the 
littleness  of  his  motives,  which  at  once  denoted  both  his  baseness  and 
his  meanness,  and  marked  him  for  a  traitor  and  a  trickster.  Nay,  in 
his  style  and  writing,  there  was  the  same  mixture  of  vicious  contrarie- 
ties;—  the  most  grovelling  ideas  were  conveyed  in  the  most  inflated 
language;  giving  mock  consequence  to  low  cavils,  and  uttering  quib- 
bles in  heroics;  so  that  his  compositions  disgusted  the  mind's  taste, 
as  much  as  his  actions  excited  the  soul's  abhorrence.  Indeed  this 
mixture  of  character  seemed,  by  some  unaccountable,  but  inherent 
quality,  to  be  appropriated,  though  in  inferior  degrees,  to  everything 
that  concerned  his  employers.  I  remember  to  have  heard  an  honor- 
able and  learned  gentleman  (Mr.  Dundas)  remark,  that  there  was 
something  in  the  first  frame  and  constitution  of  the  company,  which 
extended  the  sordid  principles  of  their  origin  over  all  their  successive 
operations;  connecting  with  their  civil  policy,  and  even  with  their 
bolo^st  achievei.ients,  the  meanness  of  a  pedler,  and  the  profligacy  of 
pirates.  Alike  in  the  political  and  the  military  line  could  be  observed 
auctioneering'  ambassadors  and  tradi?ig  generals ; — rand  thus  we  saw  a 


A.  D.  1751-1816.     RICHARD  BRINSLEY  SHERIDAN.  4G3 

revolution  brought  about  hy  ajffidaiu'ts ;  an  armj  employed  in  exeiuh'ftg 
an  arrest ;  a  town  besieged  on  a  note  of  hand ;  a  prince  dethroned  foi 
the  balance  of  aft  account.  Thus  it  was  they  exhibited  a  government, 
which  united  the  mock  majesty  of  a  bloody  sceptre  and  the  little 
traffic  of  a  merckanCs  counting-house^  wielding  a  truncheon  with  one 
hand,  and  picking  a  pocket  with  the  other. 


350,   From  his  Speech  against  Warren  Hastings  in 
Vv^ESTMiNSTER  Hall,  June  3,  1788. 

The  council,  in  recommending  attention  to  the  public  in  preference 
to  the  private  letters,  had  remarked,  in  particular,  that  one  letter 
should  not  be  taken  as  evidence,  because  it  was  manifestly  and  ab- 
stractedly private,  as  it  contained  in  one  part  the  anxieties  of  Mr. 
Middleton  for  the  illness  of  his  son.  This  was  a  singular  argument 
indeed;  and  the  circumstance,  in  my  mind,  merited  strict  observation, 
though  not  in  the  view  in  which  it  was  placed  by  the  counsel.  It  went 
to  show  that  some  at  least  of  those  concerned  in  these  transactions, 
felt  the  force  of  those  ties,  which  their  efforts  were  directed  to  tear 
asunder;  that  those  who  could  ridicule  the  respective  attachment 
of  a  mother  and  a  son;  who  would  prohibit  the  reverence  of  the  son 
to  the  mother  who  had  given  him  life ;  who  could  deny  to  maternal 
debility  the  protection  which  y?/zrt/  tenderness  should  afford; — were 
yet  sensible  of  the  straining  of  those  chords  by  which  they  were  con- 
nected. There  was  something  connected  with  this  transaction  so 
wretchedly  horrible,  and  so  vilely  loathsome,  as  to  excite  the  m.ost 
contemptible  disgust.  If  it  were  not  a  part  of  my  duty,  it  would  be 
superfluous  to  speak  of  the  sacredness  of  the  ties  which  those  aliens  to 
feeling,  those  apostles  to  humanity,  had  thus  divided.  In  such  an 
assembly  as  that  which  I  have  the  honor  of  addressing,  there  is  not 
an  eye  but  must  dart  reproof  at  this  conduct;  not  a  heart  but  must 
anticipate  its  condemnation.  Filial  Piety!  It  is  the  primal  bond 
of  society  —  it  is  that  instinctive  principle,  which,  panting  for  its 
proper  good,  soothes,  unbidden,  each  sense  and  sensibility  of  man  !  — 
it  now  quivers  on  every  lip  !  —  it  now  beams  from  every  eye  !  —  it  is 
an  emanation  of  that  gratitude,  which,  softening  under  the  sense  of 
recollected  good,  is  eager  to  own  the  vast  countless  debt  it  ne'er,  alas ! 
can  pay,  for  so  many  long  years  of  unceasing  solicitude,  honorable 
self-denials,  life-preserving  cares! — it  is  that  part  of  our  practice 
WKce  duty  drops  its  awe ;  where  reverence  refines  into  love !  —  it 
asks  no  aid  of  memory!  —  it  needs  not  the  deductions  of  reason !  — 
preexisting,  paramount  over  all,  whether  law  or  human  rule,  few 
arguments  can  increase,  and  none  can  diminish  it!  —  it  is  the  sacra- 
ment of  our  nature!  —  not  only  the  duty,  but  the  indulgence  of  man 

—  it  is  his  first  great  privilege — it  is  amongst  his  last  most  endear- 
ing delights !  —  it  causes  the  bosom  to  glow  with  reverberated  love ! 

—  it  requites  the  visitations  of  nature,  and  returns  the  blessings  that 


4G4  JOHN  PHILFOT  CURRAN.  Chap.  XXIIL 

have  been  received  !  —  it  fires  emotion  into  vital  principle  —  it  renders 
habituated  instinct  into  a  master-passion  —  sways  all  the  sweetest 
energies  of  inan  —  hangs  over  each  vicissitude  of  all  that  must  pass 
away  —  aids  the  melancholy  virtues  in  their  last  sad  tasks  of  life  to 
cheer  the  languors  of  decrepitude  and  age  —  explores  the  thought  — 
elucidates  the  aching  eye  —  and  breathes  sweet  consolation  even  in 
the  awful  moment  of  dissolution? 


John  Philpot  Curran.     1750-18 17. 

300,    From  his  Speech  on  the  Trial  of  Archibald 

Hamilton  Rowan. 

This  paper,  gentlemen,  insists  upon  the  necessity  of  emancipating 
the  Catholics  of  Ireland,  and  that  is  charged  as  part  of  the  libel.  If 
they  had  waited  another  year,  if  they  had  kept  this  prosecution  im- 
pending for  another  year,  how  much  would  remain  for  a  jury  to  decide 
upon,  I  should  be  at  a  loss  to  discover.  It  seems  as  if  the  progress  of 
public  information  was  eating  away  the  ground  of  the  prosecution. 
Since  the  commencement  of  the  prosecution,  this  part  of  the  libel  has 
unluckily  received  the  sanction  of  the  legislature.  In  that  interval  our 
Catholic  brethren  have  obtained  that  admission,  which  it  seems  it  was 
a  libel  to  propose ;  in  what  way  to  acccunt  for  this  I  am  really  at  a 
loss.  Have  any  alarms  been  occasioned  by  the  emancipation  of  our 
Catholic  brethren.?  has  the  bigoted  malignity  of  any  individuals  been 
crushed.'*  or  has  the  stability  of  the  government,  or  that  of  the  coun- 
try, been  weakened.?  or  is  one  million  of  subjects  stronger  than  four 
millions.''  Do  you  think  that  the  benefit  they  received  should  be 
poisoned  by  the  sting  of  vengeance.?  If  you  think  so,  you  must  say 
to  them,  "You  have  demanded  emancipation,  and  you  have  got  it; 
but  we  abhor  your  persons,  we  are  outraged  at  your  success,  and  we 
will  stigmatize  by  a  criminal  prosecution  the  adviser  of  that  relief 
which  you  have  obtained  from  the  voice  of  your  country."  I  ask  yon, 
do  you  think,  as  honest  men,  anxious  for  the  public  tranquillity, 
conscious  that  there  are  wounds  not  yet  completely  cicatrized,  that 
you  ought  to  speak  this  language  at  this  time,  to  men  who  are  too 
much  disposed  to  think  that  in  this  very  emancipation  they  have  been 
saved  from  their  own  Parliament  by  the  humanity  of  their  sovereign? 
Or  do  you  wish  to  prepare  them  for  the  revocation  of  these  improvi- 
dent concessions?  Do  you  think  it  wise  or  humane  at  this  moment 
to  insult  them,  by  sticking  up  in  a  pillory  the  man  who  dared  to  stand 
forth  as  their  advocate?  I  put  it  to  your  oaths;  do  you  think  that  a 
blessing  of  that  kind,  that  a  victory  obtained  by  justice  over  bigotry 
and  oppression,  should  have  a  stigma  cast  upon  it  by  an  ignominious 
sentence  upon  men  bold  and  honest  enough  to  propose  this  measure? 
to  propose  the  redeeming  of  religion  from  the  abuses  of  the  church, 
the  reclaiming  of  three  millions  of  men  from  bondage,  and  giving 
liberty  to  j^ll  who  had  a  rigJit  to  de;mand  it;  giving,  I  say,  in  the  so 


A.  D.  1764-1831.  ROBERT  HALL.  465 

much  censured  words  of  this  paper,  giving  "universal  emancipa- 
tion!" I  speak  in  the  spirit  of  the  British  law,  which  makes  liberty 
commensurate  with  and  inseparable  from  British  soil ;  which  proclaims 
even  to  the  stranger  and  sojourner,  the  moment  he  sets  his  foot  upon 
British  earth,  that  the  ground  on  which  he  treads  is  holy,  and  conse- 
crated by  the  genius  of  universal  emancipation.  No  matter  in 
what  language  his  doom  may  have  been  pronounced;  no  matter  what 
complexion,  incompatible  with  freedom,  an  Indian  or  an  African  sun 
may  have  burnt  upon  him;  no  matter  in  what  disastrous  battle  his 
liberty  may  have  been  cloven  down ;  no  matter  with  what  solemnities 
he  may  have  been  devoted  upon  the  altar  of  slavery;  the  first  moment 
he  touches  the  sacred  soil  of  Britain,  the  altar  and  the  god  sink  to- 
gether in  the  dust;  his  soul  walks  abroad  in  her  own  majesty;  his 
body  swells  beyond  the  measure  of  his  chains,  that  burst  from  around 
him ;  and  he  stands  redeemed,  regenerated,  and  disinthralled,  by 
the  irresistible  genius  of  universal  emancipation. 


Robert  Hall.*     i  764-1 831. 

SSI*   The  War  with  Napoleon. 

In  other  wars  we  have  been  a  divided  people  :  the  effect  of  our  ex 
ternal  operations  has  been  in  some  measure  weakened  by  intestine 
dissension.  When  peace  has  returned,  the  breach  has  widened,  while 
parties  have  been  formed  on  the  merits  of  particular  men,  or  of  par- 
ticular measures.  These  have  all  disappeared :  we  have  buried  our 
mutual  animosities  in  a  regard  to  the  common  safety.  The  sentiment 
of  self-preservation,  the  first  law  which  nature  has  impressed,  has 
absorbed  every  other  feeling;  and  the  fire  of  liberty  has  melted  down 
the  discordant  sentiments  and  minds  of  the  British  empire  into  one 
mass,  and  propelled  them  in  one  direction.  Partial  interests  and 
feelings  are  suspended,  the  spirits  of  the  body  are  collected  at  the 
heart,  and  we  are  awaiting  with  anxiety,  but  without  dismay,  the  dis- 
charge of  that  mighty  tempest  which  hangs  upon  the  skirts  of  the 
horizon,  and  to  which  the  ej'es  of  Europe  and  of  the  world  are  turned 
in  silent  and  awful  expectation.  While  we  feel  solicitude,  let  us  not 
betray  dejection,  nor  be  alarmed  at  the  past  successes  of  our  enemy, 
which  are  more  dangerous  to  himself  than  to  us,  since  they  have  raised 
him  from  obscurity  to  an  elevation  which  has  made  him  giddy,  and 
tempted  him  to  suppose  everything  within  his  power.  The  intoxica- 
tion of  his  success  is  the  omen  of  his  fall.  What  though  he  has  carried 
the  flames  of  war  throughout  Europe,  and  gathered  as  a  nest  the 
riches  of  the  nations,  while  none  peeped,  nor  muttered,  nor  moved 
the  wing;-  he  has  yet  to  try  his  fortune  in  another  field;  he  has  yet  to 
contend  on  a  soil  filled  with  the  monuments  of  freedom,  enriched  with 

1  Robert  Hall  was  a  Baiitist  miiiistcr,  first  ut  CunibriJgc,  and  anorwurds  at  Bristol, hniimuy  be  reckoned 
VJiuug  the  gieatt;it  i>rulors  u\'  our  coi:iitr> . 

1Q 


466  ROBERT  HALL.  Ciiap.  XXIII. 

the  blood  of  its  defenders;  with  a  people  who,  ap^mated  with   one 
soul,  and   nflamed  with  zeal  for  their  laws,  and  for  their  prince,  are 
armed  in  defence  of  all  that  is  dear  or  venerable,  —  their  wives,  their 
parents,  their  children,  the  sanctuary  of  God,  and  the  sepulchre  of 
their  fathers.     We  will  not  suppose  there  is  one  who  will  be  deterred 
from  exerting  himself  in  such  a  cause  by  a  pusillanimous  regard  to 
his  safety,  when  he  reflects  that  he  has  already  lived  too  long  who  has 
survived  the  ruin  o^  his  country;  and  that  he  who  can  enjoy  life  after 
such  an  evenj^  deserves  not  to  have  lived  at  all.     It  will  suffice  us,  if 
our  mortal  existence,  which  is  at  most  but  a  span,  be  co-extended 
with  that  of  the  nation  which  gave  vis  birth.     We  will  gladly  quit  the 
scene,  with  all  that  is  noble  and  august,  innocent  and  hoi}  :  and  in- 
stead of  wishing  to  survive  the  oppression  of  weakness,  the  violation 
of  beauty,  and  the  extinction  of  everything  on  which  the  heart  can 
repose,  welcome  the  shades  which  will  hide  from  our  view  such  hor- 
rors.    To  form  an  adequate  idea  of  the  duties  of  this  crisis,  it  will  be 
necessary  to  raise  your  minds  to  a  level  with  your  station,  to  extend 
your  views  to  a  distant  futurity,  and  to  consequences  the  most  certain, 
though  most  remote.     By  a  series  of  criminal  enterprises,  by  the  suc- 
cesses of  guilty  ambition,  the  liberties  of  Europe  have  been  gradually 
extinguished;  the  subjugation  of  Holland,  Switzerland,  and  the  free 
towns  of  Germany,  has  completed  that  catastrophe;  and  we  are  the 
only  people  in  the  eastern  hemisphere  who  are  in  possession  of  equal 
laws  and  a  free  constitution.     Freedom,  driven  from  every  spot  on  the 
Continent,  has  sought  an  asylum  in  a  country  which  she  always  chose 
for  her  favorite  abode;  but  she  is  pursued  even  here,  and  threatened 
with  destruction.     The  inundation  of  lawless  power,  after  covering 
the  whole  earth,  threatens  to  follow  us  here ;  and  we  are  most  exactly, 
most  critically  placed,  in  the  only  aperture  where  it  can  be  success- 
fully repelled  —  in  the  Thermopylae  of  the  universe.     As  far  as  the 
interests  of  freedom  are  concerned, — the  most  important  by  far  of 
sublunary  interests, — J'ou,  my  countrymen,  stand  in  the  capacity  of 
the  federal  representatives  of  the  human  race ;  for  with  you  it  is  to 
determine  (under  God)  in  what  condition  the  latest  posterity  shall  be 
born;  their  fortunes  are  intrusted  to  your  care,  and  on  your  conduct 
at  this  moment  depends  the  color  and  complexion  of  their  destiny. 
If  libert}'-,  after  being  extinguished  on  the  Continent,  is  suffered  to 
expire  here,  whence  is  it  ever  to  emerge  in  the  midst  of  that  thick 
night  that  will  invest  it.'*    It  remains  with  you,  then,  to  decide  whether 
that  freedom,  at  whose  voice  the  kingdoms  of  Europe  awoke  from  the 
sleep  of  ages,  to  run  a  career  of  virtuous  emulation  in  everything 
great  and  good  ;  the  freedom  which  dispelled  the  mists  of  superstition, 
and  invited  the  nations  to  behold  their  God;  whose  magic  touch  kin- 
dled the  rays  of  genius,  the  enthusiasm  of  poetry,  and  the  flame  of 
ek  quence ;  the  freedom  which   poured  into  our  lap  opulence  anxl  arts, 
and  embellished  life  with  innumerable  institutions  and  improvements, 
till   it  became  a  theatre  of  wonders;  it  is  for  you  to  decide  whether 
this  freedom  .shall  yet  survive,  or  be  covered  with  a  funeral  pall,  and 


A.  D.  1764-1831.  ROBERT  UALL.  4G7 

wrapt  in  eternal  gloom.  It  is  not  necessary  to  await  your  determina- 
tion. In  the  solicitude  you  feel  to  approve  yourselves  worthy  of  such 
a  trust,  every  thought  of  what  is  afflicting  in  warfare,  every  appre- 
hension of  danger,  must  vanish,  and  you  are  impatient  to  mingle  in 
the  battle  of  the  civilized  world.  Go,  then,  ye  defenders  of  your  coun- 
try, accompanied  with  every  auspicious  omen  ;  advance  with  alacrity 
into  the  field,  where  God  Himself  musters  the  hosts  to  war.  Religion 
is  too  much  interested  in  your  success  not  to  lend  you  her  aid ;  she 
"\Fill  shed  over  this  enterprise  her  selectest  influence.  While  you  are 
engaged  in  the  field,  many  will  repair  to  the  closet,  many  to  the  sanc- 
tuary;  the  faithful  of  every  name  will  employ  that  prayer  which  has 
I  ower  with  God;  the  feeble  hands,  which  are  unequal  to  any  other 
weapon,  will  grasp  the  sword  of  the  Spirit;  and  from  myriads  of 
humble,  contrite  hearts,  the  voice  of  intercession,  supplication,  and 
weeping,  will  mingle  in  its  ascent  to  heaven  with  the  shouts  of  battle 
and  the  shock  of  arms.  While  you  have  everything  to  fear  from  the 
success  of  the  enemy,  you  have  every  means  of  preventing  that  suc- 
cess, so  that  it  is  next  to  impossible  for  victory,  not  to  crown  your 
exertions.  The  extent  of  your  resources,  under  God,  is  equal  to  the 
justice  of  your  cause.  But  should  Providence  determine  otherwise, 
should  you  fall  in  this  struggle,  should  the  nation  fall,  you  will  have 
the  satisfaction  (the  purest  allotted  to  man)  of  having  performed  your 
part;  your  names  will  be  enrolled  with  the  most  illustrious  dead; 
while  posterity,  to  the  end  of  time,  as  often  as  they  revolve  the  events 
of  this  period  (and  they  will  incessantly  revolve  them),  will  turn  to 
you  a  reverential  eye,  while  they  mourn  over  the  freedom  which  is 
entombed  in  your  sepulchre.  I  cannot  but  imagine  the  virtuous 
heroes,  legislators,  and  patriots,  of  every  age  and  country,  are  bend- 
ing from  their  elevated  seats  to  witness  this  contest,  as  if  they  were 
incapable,  till  it  be  brought  to  a  favorable  issue,  of  enjoying  their 
eternal  repose.  Enjoy  that  repose,  illustrious  immortals  !  Your  man- 
tle fell  when  you  ascended;  and  thousands,  inflamed  with  your  spirit, 
and  impatient  to  tread  in  your  steps,  are  ready  "  to  swear  by  Him  that 
sitteth  upon  the  throne,  and  liveth  forever  and  ever,"  they  will  pro- 
tect Freedom  in  her  last  asylum,  and  never  desert  that  cause  which 
you  sustained  by  your  labors,  and  cemented  with  j'our  blood.  And 
Thou,  sole  Ruler  among  the  children  of  men,  to  whom  the  shields  of 
the  earth  belong,  "gird  on  Thy  sword,  thou  Most  Mighty,"  go  forth 
with  our  hosts  in  the  day  of  battle !  Im.part,  in  addition  to  their 
hereditary  valor,  that  confidence  of  success  which  springs  from  Thy 
presence  !  Pour  into  their  hearts  the  spirit  of  departed  heroes  !  In- 
spire them  with  Thine  own;  and,  while  led  by  Thine  hand,  and  fight- 
ing under  Thy  banners,  open  Thou  their  eyes  to  behold  in  every 
valley,  and  in  every  plain,  what  the  prophet  beheld  by  the  same  illu- 
mination—  chariots  of  fire,  and  horses  of  fire!  "Then  shall  the 
strong  man  be  as  tow,  and  the  maker  of  it  as  a  spark ;  and  they  shall 
both  burr   together,  and  none  shall  quench  them." 


468  SIR  JAMES  MACKINTOSH.         Chap.  XXIll. 


Sir  Jamss  Mackintosh,   i  765-1832. 
362,    From  his   Speech  in  Defence  of  Peltier  for  a  Libel 

ON  THE  FIRST  CoNSUL  OF  FrANCE  —  BONAPARTE. 

Gentlemen,  there  is  one  point  of  view  in  which  this  case  seems  to 
merit  your  most  serious  attention.  The  real  prosecutor  is  the  master 
of  the  greatest  empire  the  civilized  world  ever  saw;  the  defendant  is 
a  defenceless,  proscribed  exile.  I  consider  this  case,  therefore,  as  the 
first  of  a  long  series  of  conflicts  between  the  greatest  power  in  the 
world  and  the  only  free  press  remaining  in  Europe.  Gentlemen, 
this  distinction  of  the  English  press  is  new  —  it  is  a  proud  and  a  mel- 
ancholy distinction.  Before  the  great  earthquake  of  the  French  Rev- 
ohition  had  swallowed  up  all  the  asylums  of  free  discussion  on  the 
Continent,  we  enjoyed  that  privilege,  indeed,  more  fully  than  others, 
but  we  did  not  enjoy  it  exclusively.  In  Holland,  in  Switzerland,  in" 
the  imperial  towns  of  Germany,  the  press  was  either  legally  or  prac- 
tically free. 

But  all  these  have  been  swallowed  up  by  that  fearful  convulsion 
which  has  shaken  the  uttermost  corners  of  the  earth.  They  are  de- 
stroyed, and  gone  forever!  One  asylum  of  free  discussion  is  still  in 
violate.  There  is  still  one  spot  in  Europe  where  man  can  freely  exer- 
cise his  reason  on  the  most  important  concerns  of  society,  where  he 
can  boldly  publish  his  judgment  on  the  acts  of  the  proudest  and  most 
powerful  tyrants.  The  press  of  England  is  still  free.  It  is  guarded 
by  the  free  constitution  of  our  forefathers.  It  is  guarded  by  the  hearts 
and  arms  of  Englishmen,  and  I  trust  I  may  venture  to  say  that,  if  it 
be  to  fall,  it  will  fall  only  under  the  ruins  of  the  British  empire.  It  is 
an  awful  consideration,  gentlemen.  Every  other  monument  of  Euro- 
pean liberty  has  perished.  That  ancient  fabric  which  has  been  grad- 
ually reared  by  the  wisdom  and  virtue  of  our  fathers,  still  stands.  It 
stands,  thanks  be  to  God !  solid  and  entire  —  but  it  stands  alone,  and 
it  stands  in  ruins !  Believing,  then,  as  I  do,  that  we  are  on  the  eve 
of  a  great  struggle  —  that  this  is  only  the  first  battle  between  reason 
and  power  —  that  you  have  now  in  your  hands,  committed  to  your 
trust,  the  only  remains  of  free  discussion  in  Europe,  now  confined  to 
this  kingdom ;  addressing  you,  therefore,  as  the  guardians  of  the 
most  important  interests  of  mankind ;  convinced  that  the  unfettered 
exercise  of  reason  depends  more  on  your  present  verdict  than  on  any 
other  that  was  ever  delivered  by  a  jury,  —  I  trust  I  may  rely  with  con- 
fidence on  the  issue,  —  I  trust  that  you  will  consider  yourselves  as  the 
advanced'guard  of  liberty,  as  having  this  day  to  fight  the  first  battle 
of  free  discussion  against  the  most  formidable  enemy  that  it  ever 
encountered. 


A.  D.  1750-1823.     THOMAS  LORD  ERSKINE.  iG9 

Thomas  Lord  Erskine.     i  750-1823. 

From  his  Speech  on  the  Trial  of  Stockdale. 

3G3*   Principles  of  the  Law  of  Libel. 

Gentlemen,  the  question  you  have  therefore  to  try  upon  all  this 
matter  is  extremely  simple.  It  is  neither  more  nor  less  than  this; 
At  a  time  when  the  charges  against  Mr.  Hastings  were,  by  the  im- 
plied consent  of  the  Commons,  in  every  hand  and  on  every  table; 
when,  by  their  managers,  the  lightning  of  eloquence  was  incessantly 
consuming  him,  and  flashing  in  the  eyes  of  the  public;  when  every 
man  was,  with  perfect  impunity,  saying,  and  writing,  and  publishing 
just  what  he  pleased  of  the  supposed  plunderer  and  devastator  of 
nations,  —  would  it  have  been  criminal  in  Mr.  Hastings  himself  to 
remind  the  public  that  he  was  a  native  of  this  free  land,  entitled  to 
the  common  protection  of  her  justice,  and  that  he  had  a  defence  in 
his  turn  to  offer  to  them,  the  outlines  of  which  he  implored  them  in 
the  mean  time  to  receive,  as  an  antidote  to  the  unlimited  and  unpun- 
ished poison  in  circulation  against  him.''  This  is,  without  color  or 
exaggeration,  the  true  question  you  are  to  decide.  Because  I  assert, 
without  the  hazard  of  contradiction,  that  if  Mr.  Hastings  himself 
could  have  stood  justified  or  excused  in  your  eyes  for  publishing  this 
volume  in  his  own  defence,  the  author,  if  he  wrote  it  bond  fide  to  de- 
fend him,  must  stand  equally  excused  and  justified ;  and  if  the  author 
be  justified,  the  publisher  cannot  be  criminal,  unless  you  had  evidence 
that  it  was  published  by  him  with  a  diflferent  spirit  and  intention  from 
those  in  which  it  was  written.  The  question,  therefore,  is  correctly 
what  I  just  now  stated  it  to  be  —  Could  Mr.  Hastings  have  been  con- 
demned to  infamy  for  writing  this  book.'' 

Gentlemen,  I  tremble  with  indignation  to  be  driven  to  put  such  a 
question  in  England.  Shall  it  be  endured,  that  a  subject  of  this  coun- 
try may  be  impeached  by  the  Commons  for  the  transactions  of  twenty 
years ;  that  the  accusation  shall  spread  as  wide  as  the  region  of  let- 
ters ;  that  the  accused  shall  stand,  day  after  day  and  year  after  year, 
as  a  spectacle  before  the  public,  which  shall  be  kept  in  a  perpetual 
state  of  inflammation  against  him ;  yet  that  he  shall  not,  without  the 
severest  penalties,  be  permitted  to  submit  anything  to  the  judgment 
of  mankind  in  his  defence.?  If  this  be  law  (which  it  is  for  you  to-day 
to  decide),  such  a  man  has  no  trial.  That  great  hall,  built  by  our 
fathers  for  English  justice,  is  no  longer  a  court,  but  an  altar;  and  an 
Englishman,  instead  of  being  judged  in  it  by  God  and  his  cou7itry,  is 
a  victiin  and  a  sacrifice. 

One  word  more,  gentlemen,  and  I  have  done.  Every  human  tribu- 
nal ought  to  take  ca^e  to  administer  justice,  as  we  look  hereafter  to 
have  justice  administered  to  ourselves.  Upon  the  principle  on  which 
the  attorney-general  prays  sentence  upon  my  client,  God  have  mercy 
upon  us  !     Instead  of  standing  before  him  in  judgment  with  the  hopes 


470  THOMAS  LORD  ERSKINE,         Chap.  XXUl. 

and  consolations  of  Christians,  we  must  call  upon  the  mounta'ns  to 
cover  us;  for  which  of  us  can  present,  for  omniscient  examination,  a 
pure,  unspotted,  and  faultless  course?  But  I  humbly  expect  that  the 
benevolent  Author  of  our  being  will  judge  us  as  I  have  been  pointing 
out  for  your  example.  Holding  up  the  great  volume  of  our  lives  in 
his  hands,  and  regarding  the  general  scope  of  them,  if  he  discovers 
benevolence,  charity,  and  good-will  to  man  beating  in  the  heart,  where 
he  alone  can  look;  if  he  finds  that  our  conduct,  though  often  forced 
out  of  the  path  by  our  infirmities,  has  been  in  general  well  directed, 
hi"  iiU-searching  eye  will  assuredly  never  pursue  us  into  those  little 
corners  of  our  lives,  much  less  will  his  justice  select  them  for  punish- 
ment, without  the  general  context  of  our  existence,  by  which  faults 
may  be  sometimes  found  to  have  grown  out  of  virtues,  and  very  many 
of  our  heaviest  offences  to  have  been  grafted  by  human  imperfection 
upon  the  best  and  kindest  of  our  affections.  No,  gentlemen,  believe 
me,  this  is  not  the  course  of  divine  justice,  or  there  is  no  truth  in  the 
gospel  of  Heaven.  If  the  general  tenor  of  a  man's  conduct  be  such 
as  I  have  represented  it,  he  may  walk  through  the  shadow  of  death, 
with  all  his  faults  about  him,  with  as  much  cheerfulness  as  in  the 
common  paths  of  life,  because  he  knows  that,  instead  of  a  stern 
accuser  to  expose  before  the  Author  of  his  nature  those  frail  passages, 
which,  like  the  scored  matter  in  the  book  before  you,  checkers  the 
volume  of  the  brightest  and  best  spent  life,  his  mercy  will  obscure 
them  from  the  eye  of  his  purity,  and  our  repentance  blot  them  out 
forever. 


56*4.    From  his  Speech  on  the  Trial  of  Thomas  Hardy. 

Gentlemen,  my  whole  argument  then  amounts  to  no  more  than 
this,  that  before  the  crime  of  compassing  the  king's  death  can  be 
found  by  you,  the  jury,  whose  province  it  is  to  judge  of  its  existence, 
it  must  be  believed  by  you  to  have  existed  in  point  of  fact.  Before  you 
can  adjudge  a  fact,  you  must  believe  it,  —  not  suspect  it,  or  imagine 
t,  or  fancy  it, — but  believe  it;  and  it  is  impossible  to  impress 
the  human  mind  with  such  a  reasonable  and  certain  belief,  as  is  neces- 
sary to  be  impressed,  before  a  Christian  man  can  adjudge  his  neigh- 
bor to  the  smallest  penalty,  much  less  to  the  pains  of  death,  without 
having  such  evidence  as  a  reasonable  mind  will  accept  of,  as  the  in- 
fallible test  of  truth.  And  what  is  that  evidence?  Neither  more  nor 
less  than  that  which  the  constitution  has  established  in  the  courts 
for  the  general  administration  of  justice;  namely,  that  the  evidence 
convinces  the  jury,  beyond  all  reasonable  doubt,  that  the  criminal 
'fitention,  constituting  the  crime,  existed  in  the  mind  of  the  man  upon 
trial,  and  was  the  main-spring  of  his  conduct.  The  rules  of  evidence, 
as  they  are  settled  by  law,  and  adopted  in  its  general  administration, 
are  not  to  be  overruled  or  tampered  with.  They  are  founded  in  the 
charities  of  religion,  in   the   philosophy  of  nature,  in  the   truths  of 


A.  D.  1750-1823.     THOMAS  LORD   EBSKINE.  471 

history,  and  in  the  experience  of  common  life ;  and  whoever  ventures 
rashly  to  depart  from  them,  let  him  remember  that  it  will  be  meted 
to  him  in  the  same  measure,  and  that  both  God  and  man  will  judge 
him  accordingly.  These  are  arguments  addressed  to  your  reasons 
and  consciences,  not  to  be  shaken  in  upright  minds  by  any  precedent, 
for  no  precedents  can  sanctify  injustice ;  if  they  could,  every  human 
right  would  long  ago  have  been  extinct  upon  the  earth.  If  the  State 
Trials  in  bad  times  are  to  be  searched  for  precedents,  what  murders 
may  you  not  commit;  what  law  of  humanity  may  you  not  trample 
upon;  what  rule  of  justice  m"y  you  not  violate;  and  what  maxim 
of  wise  policy  may  you  not  abrogate  and  confound.''  If  precedents  in 
bad  times  are  to  be  implicitly  followed,  why  should  we  have  heard 
an^  evidence  at  all  ?  You  might  have  convicted  without  any  evidence, 
foi  manj  have  been  so  convicted,  and  in  this  manner  murdered,  even 
by  acts  of  Parliament.         *         ♦         *         * 

In  times  when  the  whole  habitable  earth  is  in  a  state  of  change  and 
fluctuation,  when  deserts  are  starting  up  into  civilized  empires  around 
)ou,  and  when  men,  no  longer  slaves  to  the  prejudices  of  particular 
countries,  much  less  to  the  abuses  of  particular  governments,  enlist 
themselves,  like  the  citizens  of  an  enlightened  world,  into  whatever 
communities  their  civil  liberties  may  be  best  protected,  it  never  can 
be  for  the  advantage  of  this  country  to  prove,  that  the  strict,  unex- 
tended  letter  of  her  laws,  is  no  security  to  its  inhabitants.  On  the 
contrary,  when  so  dangerous  a  lure  is  everywhere  holding  out  to  em- 
igration, it  will  be  found  to  be  the  wisest  policy  of  Great  Britain  to 
set  up  her  happy  constitution,  —  the  strict  letter  of  her  guardian  laws, 
and  the  proud  condition  of  equal  freedom,  which  her  highest  and  her 
lowest  subjects  ought  equally  to  enjoy;  — it  will  be  her  wisest  policy 
to  set  up  these  first  of  human  blessings  against  those  charms  of  change 
and  novelty  which  the  varying  condition  of  the  world  is  hourly  dis- 
playing, and  which  may  deeply  aftect  the  population  and  prosperity 
of  our  country.  In  times  when  the  subordination  to  authority  is  said 
to  be  everywhere  but  too  little  felt,  it  will  be  found  to  be  the  wisest 
policy  of  Great  Britain  to  instil  into  the  governed  an  almost  super- 
stitious reverence  for  the  strict  security  of  the  laws;  which,  from  their 
equality  of  principle,  beget  no  jealousies  or  discontent ;  which,  from 
their  equal  administration,  can  seldom  work  injustice:  and  which, 
from  the  reverence  growing  out  of  their  mildness  and  antiquity,  ac- 
quire a  stability  in  the  habits  and  affections  of  men,  far  beyond  the 
force  of  civil  obligation  ;  —  whereas  severe  penalties  and  arbitrary  con- 
structions of  laws  intended  for  security,  lay  the  foundations  of  alien' 
ation  from  every  human  government,  and  have  been  the  cause  of  al 
the  calamities  that  have  come,  and  are  coming,  upon  the  earth. 


472  OEORGE   CANNING.  Chap.  XXIII 

George  Canning,     i  770-1 827. 
30S»    From  his  Speech  on  Parliamentary  Reform. 

Dreading,  therefore,  the  danger  of  total,  and  seeing  the  difficulties 
as  well  as  the  unprofitableness  of  partial  alteration,  I  object  to  this 
first  step  towards  a  change  in  the  constitution  of  the  House  of  Com- 
mons. There  are  wild  theories  abroad.  I  am  not  disposed  to  impute 
an  ill  motive  to  any  man  who  entertains  them.  I  will  believe  such 
a  man  to  be  as  sincere  in  his  conviction  of  the  possibility  of  realizing 
his  notions  of  change  without  risking  the  tranquillity  of  the  country, 
as  I  am  sincere  in  my  belief  of  their  impracticability,  and  of  the  tre- 
mendous danger  of  attempting  to  carry  them  into  effect;  but  for  the 
sake  of  the  world  as  well  as  for  our  own  safety,  let  us  be  cautious  and 
firm.  Other  nations,  excited  by  the  example  of  the  liberty  which  this 
country  has  long  possessed,  have  attempted  to  copy  our  constitution ; 
and  some  of  them  have  shot  beyond  it  in  the  fierceness  of  their  pur- 
suit. I  grudge  not  to  other  nations  that  share  of  liberty  which  they 
may  acquire  :  in  the  name  of  God  let  them  enjoy  it!  But  let  us  warn 
them  that  they  lose  not  the  object  of  their  desire  by  the  very  eager- 
ness with  which  they  attempt  to  grasp  it.  Inheritors  and  conserva- 
tors of  rational  freedom,  let  us,  while  others  are  seeking  it  in  restless- 
ness and  trouble,  be  a  steady  and  shining  light  to  guide  their  course, 
not  a  wandering  meteor  to  bewilder  and  mislead  them. 

Let  it  not  be  thought  that  this  is  an  unfriendly  or  disheartening 
counsel  to  those  who  are  either  struggling  under  the  pressure  of  harsh 
government,  or  exulting  in  the  novelty  of  sudden  emancipation.  It 
is  addressed  much  rather  to  those  who,  though  cradled  and  educated 
amidst  the  sober  blessings  of  the  British  constitution,  pant  for  other 
schemes  of  liberty  than  those  which  that  constitution  sanctions  — 
other  than  are  compatible  with  a  just  equality  of  civil  lights,  or  with 
the  necessary  restraints  of  social  obligation;  of  some  of  whom  it  may 
be  said,  in  the  language  which  Dryden  puts  into  the  mouth  of  one  of 
the  most  extravagant  of  his  heroes,  that, 

•  "  They  would  be  free  as  nature  first  made  man, 

Ere  the  base  laws  of  servitude  began, 
When  wild  in  woods  the  noble  savage  ran." 


'o"- 


Noble  and  swelling  sentiments  !  — but  such  as  cannot  be  reduced  into 
practice.  Grand  ideas!  —  but  which  must  be  qualified  and  adjusted 
by  a  compromise  between  the  aspirings  of  individuals  and  a  due  con- 
cern for  the  general  tranquillity;  —  must  be  subdued  and  chastened 
by  reason  and  experience,  before  they  can  be  directed  to  any  useful 
end !  A  search  after  abstract  perfection  in  government  may  produce, 
in  generous  minds,  an  enterprise  and  enthusiasm  to  be  recorded  by 
the  historian,  and  to  be  celebrated  by  the  poet :  but  such  perfection  is 
not  an  object  of  reasonable  pursuit,  because  it  is  not  one  of  possible 
attainment :  and   never  yet  did   a  passionate  struggle  after  an  abso- 


A.  i).  1770-182V.  GEORGE    CANNING.  473 

lutely  unattainable  object  fail  to  be  productive  of  misery  to  an  indi- 
vidual—  of  madness  and  confusion  to  a  people.  As  the  inhabitants 
of  those  burning  climates  which  lie  beneath  a  tropical  sun  sigh  for  the 
coolness  of  the  mountain  and  the  grove,  so  (all  history  instructs  us) 
do  nations  which  have  basked  for  a  time  in  the  torrent  blaze  of  an 
unmitigated  liberty,  too  often  call  upon  the  shades  of  despotism,  even 
of  military  despotism,  to  cover  them.         ♦         ♦        ♦        ♦ 

Our  lot  is  happily  cast  in  the  temperate  zone  of  freedom :  the  clime 
bciit  suited  to  the  development  of  the  moral  qualities  of  the  human 
race ;  to  the  cultivation  of  their  faculties,  and  to  the  security  as  well 
as  the  improvement  of  their  virtues:  a  clime  not  exempt,  indeed,  from 
variations  of  the  elements,  but  variations  which  purify  while  they 
agitate  the  atmosphere  that  we  breathe.  Let  us  be  sensible  of  the 
advantages  which  it  is  our  happiness  to  enjoy.  Let  us  guard  with 
pious  gratitude  the  flame  of  genuine  liberty,  that  fire  from  heaven, 
of  which  our  constitution  is  the  holy  depository ;  and  let  us  not,  for 
the  chance  of  rendering  it  more  intense  and  more  radiant,  impair  its 
purity  or  hazard  its  extinction! 


300,  Speech  at  Plymouth  in  the  Year  1823,  upon  the  Occasion 
of  being  presented  with  the  freedom  of  that  town. 

But  while  we  thus  control  even  our  feelings  by  our  duty,  let  it  not 
be  said  that  we  cultivate  peace,  either  because  we  fear,  or  because  we 
are  unprepared,  for  war;  on  the  contrary,  if  eight  months  ago  the 
government  did  not  hesitate  to  proclaim  that  the  country  was  pre- 
pared for  war,  if  war  should  be  unfortunately  necessary,  every  month 
3f  peace  that  has  since  passed,  has  but  made  us  so  much  the  more 
capable  of  exertion.  The  resources  created  by  peace  are  means  of 
war.  In  cherishing  those  resources  we  but  accumulate  those  means. 
Our  present  repose  is  no  more  a  proof  of  inability  to  act,  than  the 
state  of  inertness  and  inactivity  in  which  I  have  seen  those  mighty 
masses  that  float  in  the  waters  above  your  town,  is  a  proof  they  are 
Jevoid  of  strength,  and  incapable  of  being  fitted  out  for  action.  You 
well  know,  gentlemen,  how  soon  one  of  those  stupendous  masses, 
now  reposing  on  their  shadows  in  perfect  stillness,  —  how  soon,  upon 
any  call  of  patriotism,  or  of  necessity,  it  would  assume  the  likeness 
of  an  animated  thing,  instinct  with  life  and  motion;  how  soon  i' 
would  ruffle,  as  it  were,  its  swelling  plumage;  how  quickly  it  would 
put  forth  all  its  beauty  and  its  bravery,  collect  its  scattered  elements 
of  strength,  and  awaken  its  dormant  thunder.  Such  as  is  one  of 
these  magnificent  machines  when  springing  from  inaction  into  a  dis- 
play of  its  might,  such  is  England  herself,  while  apparently  passive 
and  motionless  she  silently  concentrates  the  power  to  be  put  forth  on 
an  adequate  occasion.  But  God  forbid  that  that  occasion  should 
arise.    After  a  war  sustained  for  nearly  a  quarter  of  a  century,  —  some- 


474  LORD  BROUGHAM.  Chap.  XXIII, 

times  single-handed,  and  with  all  Europe  arranged  at  times  against 
her  or  at  her  side,  —  England  needs  a  period  of  tranquillity,  and  may 
enjoy  it  without  fear  of  misconstruction.  Long  may  we  be  enabled, 
gentlemen,  to  improve  the  blessings  of  our  present  situation,  to  culti- 
vate the  arts  of  peace,  to  give  to  commerce,  now  reviving,  greater 
extension  and  new  spheres  of  employment,  and  to  confirm  the  pros- 
perity now  generally  diffused  throughout  this  island. 


Lord  Brougham,     i  779-1868. 

From  the  Speech  on  the  Reform  Bill. 

307*   Peril  of  denying  Just  Reforms. 

My  Lords,  I  do  not  disguise  the  intense  solicitude  I  feel  for  the 
event  of  this  debate,  because  I  know  full  well  that  the  peace  of  the 
country  is  involved  in  the  issue.  I  cannot  look  without  dismay  at  the 
rejection  of  this  measure.  But  grievous  as  may  be  the  consequences 
of  a  temporary  defeat,  temporary  it  can  only  be;  for  its  ultimate  and 
even  speedy  success  is  certain.  Nothing  can  now  stop  it.  Do  not 
suffer  yourselves  to  be  persuaded  that,  even  if  the  present  ministers 
were  driven  from  the  helm,  any  one  could  steer  you  through  the 
troubles  which  surround  you  without  reform.  But  our  successors 
would  take  up  the  task  in  circumstances  far  less  auspicious.  Under 
them  you  would  be  fain  to  grant  a  bill,  compared  with  which,  the  one 
we  now  proffer  you  is  moderate  indeed.  Hear  the  parable  of  the 
Sybil ;  for  it  conveys  a  wise  and  wholesome  moral.  She  now  appears 
at  your  gate,  and  offers  you  mildly  the  volumes,  the  precious  volumes, 
of  wisdom  and  peace.  The  price  she  asks  is  reasonable ;  to  restore 
the  franchise  which,  without  any  bargain,  you  ought  voluntarily  to 
give.  You  refuse  her  terms,  her  moderate  terms.  She  darkens  the 
porch  no  longer.  But  soon,  for  you  cannot  do  without  her  wares, 
you  call  her  back.  Again  she  comes,  but  with  diminished  treasures. 
The  leaves  of  the  book  are  in  part  torn  away  by  lawless  hand?,  in 
part  defaced  with  characters  of  blood.  But  the  prophetic  Maid  has 
risen  in  her  demands;  it  is  Parliaments  by  the  Year;  it  is  Vote  by 
the  Ballot;  it  is  Suffrage  by  the  Million!  From  this  you  turn  away 
indignant,  and  for  a  second  time  she  departs.  Beware  of  her  third 
coming :  for  the  treasure  you  must  have ;  and  what  price  she  may 
next  demand  who  shall  tell.?  It  maybe  even  the  mace  which  rests 
iipon  that  woolsack.  What  may  follow  if  your  course  of  obstinacy  is 
persisted  in,  I  cannot  take  upon  me  to  predict,  nor  do  I  wish  to  con- 
jecture. But  this  I  know,  that  as  sure  as  man  is  mortal,  and  to  err 
is  human,  justice  deferred  enhances  the  price  at  which  you  must  pur- 
chase safety  and  peace;  nor  can  yon  expect  to  gather  in  another  crop 
than  they  did  who  went  before  you,  if  you  persevere  in  their  utterly 
abominable  husbandry  of  sowing  injustice  and  reaping  rebellion.  *   * 


A..  D.  1779-1S68.  LORD  BROUOHAM.  475 

You  are  the  highest  judicature  in  this  realm.  It  is  a  judge's  first 
duty  never  to  pronounce  sentence,  in  the  most  trifling  case,  without 
hearing.  Will  jou  make  this  the  exception?  Are  you  really  pre- 
pared to  determine,  but  not  to  hear,  the  mighty  cause  upon  which  a 
nation's  hopes  and  fears  hang?  You  are!  Then  beware  of  your  de- 
cision I  Rouse  not  a  peace-loving,  but  resolute  people.  Alienate  not 
from  your  body  the  affections  of  a  whole  empire.  I  counsel  you  to 
assist  w'th  your  uttermost  effort  in  preserving  the  peace,  in  upholding 
and  perpetuating  the  constitution.  Therefore  I  pray  and  exhort  you 
not  to  reject  this  measure.  By  all  you  hold  dear,  by  all  the  ties  that 
bind  every  one  of  us  to  our  common  order  and  our  common  country, 
I  solemnly  adjure  you,  I  warn  you,  I  implore  you,  yes,  on  my  bended 
knees,  I  supplicate  you,  reject  not  this  bill. 


From  the  Speech  for  the  immediate  Abolition  of  Slavery  in 

THE  British  West  Indies. 

308,    Slavery  opposed  to  the  Law  of  Nature. 

T  trust  that  at  length  the  time  is  come  when  Parliament  will  no 
longer  bear  to  be  told  that  slave-owners  are  the  best  lawgivers  on 
slavery;  no  longer  allow  an  appeal  from  the  British  public  to  such 
communities  as  those  in  which  the  Smiths  and  the  Grimsdalls  are 
persecuted  to  death  for  teaching  the  Gospel  to  the  negroes,  and  the 
Mosses  holden  in  affectionate  respect  for  torture  and  murder;  no 
longer  suffer  our  voice  to  roll  across  the  Atlantic  in  empty  warnings 
and  fruitless  orders.  Tell  me  not  of  rights ;  talk  not  of  the  property 
of  the  planter  in  his  slaves.  I  deny  the  right;  I  acknowledge  not 
the  property.  The  principles,  the  feelings  of  our  common  nature,  rise 
in  rebellion  against  it.  Be  the  appeal  made  to  the  understanding,  or 
to  the  heart,  the  sentence  is  the  same  that  rejects  it.  In  vain  you  tell 
me  of  the  laws  that  sanction  such  a  crime!  There  is  a  law  above  all 
the  enactments  of  human  codes,  —  the  same  throughout  the  world  — 
the  same  in  all  times,  —  such  as  it  was  before  the  daring  genius  of 
Columbus  pierced  the  night  of  ages,  and  opened  to  one  world  the 
sources  of  power,  wealth,  and  knowledge,  to  another,  all  unutterable 
woes,  —  such  as  it  is  this  day.  It  is  the  law  written  by  the  finger  of 
God  on  the  heart  of  man;  and  by  that  law,  unchangeable  and  eter- 
nal, while  men  despise  fraud,  and  loath  rapine,  and  abhor  blood,  they 
will  reject  with  indignation  the  wild  and  guilty  fantasy,  that  man  can 
hold  property  in  man  !  In  vain  you  appeal  to  treaties,  to  covenants 
between  nations  :  the  covenants  of  the  Almighty,  whether  the  Old 
covenant  or  the  New,  denounce  such  unholy  pretensions.  To  those 
laws  did  they  of  old  refer  who  maintained  the  African  trade.  Such 
treaties  did  they  cite,  and  not  untruly;  for  by  one  shameful  compact 
you  bartered  the  glories  of  Blenheim  for  the  traffic  in  blood.  Yet 
despite  of  law  and  tieaty,  that  infernal  traffic  is  now  destroyed,  and 


476  EDWARD  IRVING.  Chap.  XXIIL 

its  votaries  put  to  death  like  other  pirates.  How  came  this  change  to 
pass?  Not  assuredly  by  Parliament  leading  the  way;  but  the  country 
at  length  awoke;  the  indignation  of  the  people  was  kindled;  it  de- 
scended in  thunder,  and  smote  the  traffic,  and  scattered  its  guilty 
profits  to  the  winds.  Now,  then,  let  the  planters  beware  —  let  their 
assemblies  beware  —  let  the  government  at  home  beware  —  let  the 
Parliament  beware  !  The  same  country  is  once  more  awake  —  awake 
to  the  condition  of  negro  slavery;  the  same  indignation  kindles  in 
the  bosom  of  the  same  people ;  the  same  cloud  is  gathering  that 
annihilated  the  slave  trade;  and,  if  it  shall  descend  again,  they  on 
whom  its  crash  may  fall,  will  not  be  destroyed  before  I  have  warned 
them ;  but  I  pray  that  their  destruction  may  turn  away  from  us  the 
more  terrible  judgments  of  God. 


Edward  Irving,     i  793-1 834. 

From  the  *'  Orations  for  the  Word  of  God." 

S00»   The  Object  of  Miracles. 

There  was  a  time  when  each  revelation  of  the  Word  of  God  had  an 
introduction  into  this  earth  which  neither  permitted  men  to  doubt 
whence  it  came,  nor  wherefore  it  was  sent.  If,  at  the  giving  of  each 
several  truth,  a  star  was  not  lighted  up  in  heaven,  as  at  the  birth  of 
the  Prince  of  Truth,  there  was  done  upon  the  earth  a  wonder,  to  make 
her  children  listen  to  the  message  of  their  Maker.  The  Almighty 
made  bare  his  arm ;  and,  through  mighty  acts  shown  by  his  holy 
servants,  gave  demonstration  of  his  truth,  and  found  for  it  a  sure 
place  among  the  other  matters  of  human  knowledge  and  belief. 

But  now  the  miracles  of  God  have  ceased,  and  nature,  secure  and 
unmolested,  is  no  longer  called  on  for  testimonies  to  her  Creator's 
voice.  No  burning  bush  draws  the  footsteps  to  his  presence-chamber; 
no  invisible  voice  holds  the  ear  awake ;  no  hand  cometh  forth  from 
the  obscure  to  write  his  purposes  in  letters  of  flame.  The  vision  is 
shut  up,  and  the  testimony  is  sealed,  and  the  word  of  the  Lord  is 
ended,  and  this  solitary  volume,  with  its  chapters  and  verses,  is  the 
sum  total  of  all  for  which  the  chariot  of  heaven  made  so  many  visits 
to  the  earth,  and  the  Son  of  God  himself  tabernacled  and  dwelt 
among  us. 


From  the  *'  Orations  for  Judgment  to  Come." 

370,   Anticipation  of  a  Future  World  of  Glory. 

Yet  shall  the  happy  creatures  have  enough  to  do,  and  to  enjoy, 
though  there  be  no  misery  to  comfort,  nor  evil  to  stem,  nor  grief, 
over  whose  departure,  to  reioice.     Of  how  many  cheap  exquisite  joyi 


A.  D.  1792-1834.  EDWARD  IRVING.  477 

are  these  five  senses  the  inlets!  and  who  is  he  that  can  look  upon  the 
beautiful  scenes  of  the  morning,  lying  in  the  freshness  of  the  dew, 
and  the  joyful  light  of  the  risen  sun,  and  not  be  happy?  Cannot 
God  create  another  world  many  times  more  fair?  and  cast  over  it  a 
mantle  of  light  many  times  more  lovely?  and  wash  it  with  purer  dew 
than  ever  dropped  from  the  eyelids  of  the  morning?  Can  he  not  shut 
up  winter  in  his  hoary  caverns,  or  send  him  howling  over  another 
domain?  Can  he  not  form  the  crystal  eye  more  full  of  sweet  sensa- 
tions, and  fill  the  soul  with  a  richer  faculty  of  conversing  with  nature, 
than  the  most  gifted  poet  did  ever  possess?  Think  you  the  creative 
function  of  God  is  exhausted  upon  this  dark  and  troublous  ball  of 
earth?  or  that  this  body  and  soul  of  human  nature  are  the  master- 
piece of  his  architecture?  Who  knows  what  new  enchantment  of 
melody,  what  new  witchery  of  speech,  what  poetry  of  conception, 
what  variety  of  design,  and  what  brilliancy  pf  execution,  he  may 
endow  the  human  faculties  withal  —  in  what  new  graces  he  may  clothe 
nature,  with  such  various  enchantment  of  hill  and  dale,  woodland, 
rushing  streams,  and  living  fountains;  with  bowers  of  bliss  and  Sab- 
bath scenes  of  peace,  and  a  thousand  forms  of  disporting  creatures, 
so  as  to  make  all  the  world  hath  beheld  to  seem  like  the  gross  pic- 
ture with  which  you  catch  infants ;  and  to  make  the  Eastern  tale  of 
romances,  and  the  most  rapt  imagination  of  Eastern  poets,  like  the 
ignorant  prattle  and  rude  structures  which  first  delight  the  nursery 
and  afterwards  ashame  our  riper  years. 


\ 


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